Legacy
by jschneids
Summary: Fallout 3, Good Male LW. He saved the Capital Wasteland countless times, changed the world, and then he disappeared. 16 years later, the son he never knew enters the Wastes, and learns of a father who was larger than life as the Wastes greet war once more
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Fallout 3, the folks at Bethesda do. Anyways, this is my first go at a Fallout fic so please let me know what you think. Also, please feel free to correct me on any bit of the canon I mess up. I'm going with a good, male Lone Wanderer. Also, it should go without saying that this contains spoilers for the game itself, as well as just about all of the DLC's (downloadable content packs; Broken Steel, the Pitt, etc.)**

Prologue:

She had always liked him. They had played together as kids, exploring the twists and turns of Vault's halls and chambers, facing off with Butch and his bunch of pet hooligans. He'd always been there as they had grown up, a partner to help with chores, a friendly ear willing to listen to her frustrations, and her knight in shining vault-suit whenever Butch and the Tunnel Snakes got to close. There were so many memories of childhood and youth; birthday parties and school exams, and all of it ending with one night. One wild, romantic night involving a few bottles of liquor snuck from the Vault stores. One night that forever changed her life. The very next day was a whirlwind, his father gone, Jonas and so many others dead, and finally, with the grinding of the great Vault door's closing, he was gone. She found out a week later that she was pregnant.

Three months later she was beginning to show when he came rolling back in clad in dust streaked power armor, crackling Plasma Rifle slung over his back, epic tales of daring deeds preceding him; a living legend brought back by her desperate plea. The Lone Wanderer, they said, the Hero of the Wastes. In the span of an hour he'd defused a civil war and placed her as Overseer, and she had forced him out, half fearful, half confused, not knowing what this man had done with the one she'd fallen in love with, only for his parting words to reveal her knight in a new suit of armor. She didn't have the guts to tell him he was a father.

Months passed, and she worked at a frenzied pace to prepare her people for the Wastes, the bulge of her middle always growing, and new stories of her love trickling in. The Lone Wanderer, Liberator of the Pitt, Bane of Super Mutants. Tall tales grew taller, fact was muddied with fiction. Raider's had nightmares of him. He once arm wrestled a Super Mutant, and won. Megaton's bomb disarmed itself after he gave it a hard glare. He ate Mirelurks for lunch, Deathclaws for dinner, and Yao Guai for dessert. He could chow down on Scrap Metal and shit out Caps. The radio sang his praises, and towns welcomed him open arms. He was a man of the people, a hero.

As the Lone Wanderer strode through the burning halls of Raven Rock, she laid in the Vault's Clinic, screaming and crying and calling his name, pushing with all her being. As he collapsed in the crackling control room of Project Purity, ready to die so that the Wasteland might live, she sat in a hospital gown, her child swaddled in a blanket and clutched to her chest, tears rolling down her eyes. She had son. _He_ had a son.

More tales came, of the Enclave's final defeat, of adventures in the swamps of Point Lookout. Of a new love found in the Brotherhood of Steel. That one had cut the deepest, an unknowing betrayal. Yet she could only feel guilt, only blame herself. She had let him slip. She had kept his child from him. In her heart, she knew what needed to be done. She would send for him, tell him all that had happened, pour out her heart and soul to the one man she loved. And then it was too late. The Lone Wanderer, the Master of the Wastes, was no more. Some said he had left the Capital Wasteland, searching for adventure elsewhere. Others said he had finally succumbed to the horrors of the Waste he had fought so hardly to tame. A few crackpots even blamed it on aliens. It did not matter to her. All she knew was that the man she loved was gone, never to return, and his one legacy, the one piece of him left in this world.

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"Hello Capital Wasteland, and good morning ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, ghouls and muties. It's me, your voice in the gamma rays, the one, the only, Threeeeeeee Dog! How's everybody doin' on this fine Monday morning?"

The crazy raspy voice of the king of the Wasteland's airwaves tumbled out of the clunky old radio on his bedside table and into the ears of Jonas Almodovar. Groaning drowsily, the young man rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rose from his creaking mattress brushing his sandy blond hair back with his hand. Clad in boxers and an undershirt which only served to highlight his skinny frame, the young man stumbled about his room in the typical morning haze, sparing a moment to shut off the radio. With a click of a button, the Limited Edition Vault Boy Clock-Radio (a Vault-Tec collectible) faded into silence, and he glared hatefully at the machine; every now and then he regretted ever fixing it up from the pile of bolts and wires it had been when he bought it. He slid into his Vault Utility Suit, the leather creaking as he entered into what felt like a second skin. _Of course,_ he thought to himself, _it has the same effect on the ladies, so it isn't all bad._

He had one of the originals, 200 year old cowhide in all its glory. Some had been patched with brahmin skin, and even a few new ones made from scratch, complete with the stylized 101 on the back, but to him the classics were still best. Drab white and brown couldn't top the Vault-Tec blue. Jonas checked his Pip-Boy, glancing over his status page; it paid to keep eye on your health. The young man thumbed through the faded green display idly in his usual morning routine. Everything appeared to be in place. With a sigh, he grabbed his toolbox, clamped a baseball cap down on his unruly hair and went to work.

The halls of Vault 101 shone proudly thanks to the care of the Custodial Staff and a few boxes of Abraxo Cleaner. They were crowded too. Jonas skillfully wove through the morning rush as everyone of age headed to work. A dozen good mornings and a few turns later, the young man found himself at the top of a staircase labeled "Reactor" and the hum emanating from below gave credence to its proclamation. Whistling a mindless tune, Jonas descended into the belly of the Vault and found Stanley already there. The old man was bustling about from console to console and machine to machine, defying his age. He had gone near senile years ago, but was still the best mechanic they had.

"Hey there Stanley," Jonas offered, sleep still numbing his voice.

"Jonas, that you, boy? Come over here and gimme a hand with this piping. Damn hands are shaking too much."

With a sigh, Jonas walked over to his mentor and steadied the old man. The young man quickly picked out the problem and let his nimble fingers get to work; he'd always had an aptitude for machines. The morning passed as it usually did, as the young man played a role that was half babysitter half student to the aged mechanic. Lunch passed uneventfully, giving the young man some spare time to tinker before work started back up again. His flamethrower was coming along nicely.

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Three o'clock rolled around just in time, and with a sigh of relief, Jonas stepped back from the generator he had been working on and wiped the sweat from his brow and the grease from his hands. He turned just in time to see Alicia Gomez strut down the stairs and flash him a smile. The young man's heart melted and he fumbled for words, but was too late as the girl continued walking, stopping before her great-grandfather and helping him up the stairs. The old man belligerently insisted he could do it himself. All too soon, she was gone, and, mentally berating himself, Jonas shook his head.

"Some day," he muttered, "some day"

A shower and a fresh Vault Suit later, Jonas found himself meandering through his underground home, passing the Overseer's Office on his way to the entrance. Attentive eyes picked up the lack of activity from within; the "OverMom" as he had so affectionately coined her when he was five, had not returned yet. The young man plodded onwards, passing greeting given to everyone he encountered. The Vault made for a tight knit community; everyone knew everyone. Finally, he reached the entrance.

A cadre of Security Officers stood guard in the entry hall, as always, monitoring all traffic into and out of the Vault, making sure each passerby was a Vault resident, or sanctioned by the Office of the Overseer. Outsiders allowed entry into the Vault were few and far between, but there were a handful of folks the Office of the Overseer had extended the privilege to.

The massive steel door had been rolled back and a few men and women in dust stained Vault Suits were trickling back inside from their jobs outside. Chief Gomez stood at the door controls, like a sentinel watching hawk eyed as his men confirmed the identity of each entry before taking their offered firearms and stowing them in a series of secured lockers behind a counter; guns were a communal resource, and time with them that wasn't job related cost you. Luckily, Jonas had come prepared. Giving the pouch a slight jingle, Jonas walked over to the arms lockers and handed Officer Gomez Junior, who reminded him once again just to call him Freddie, the bag of Caps, making a bit of small talk before getting to his request. When the father of the girl you had your eye on worked with weapons all day, it paid to stay on his good side.

"I'll take an hour with Old Glory and half a box of rounds."

With a nod and a smile, Freddie retrieved the battered looking old Hunting Rifle from its place and placed in on the counter before sliding the cardstock box containing its ammunition next to it. Jonas smiled; ammo had become a lot cheaper since trade with the Pitt had opened up. Slinging the weapon over his back, Jonas headed towards the door, Security Officers keeping half an eye on him as they held their Assault Rifles, wary of having anymore weaponry even in the entryway of the Vault. Jonas sighed as he eyed up their weapons. _Another fruit of trade_, he thought sardonically. Progress was being made in keeping the Security Officers in line, but there was at least one disciplinary hearing every month.

Security Chief Gomez stopped him at the door. "You should have about an hour before we close up for the night, Jonas" the older man said, before adding, with a wry smile, "and try not to shoot your eye out or anything. I don't want to have to explain to the Overseer why her son's in the Clinic." He eyed the young man's gun before continuing. "Old Glory again? God boy, you're the only one who ever uses that beat up piece of junk. Might as well put your name on it."

Jonas answered with a smile. "If it means I get to use it for free, you can write whatever you want on it."

Chief Gomez just laughed, his face crinkling up along well worn wrinkles. "Keep wishing boy. Maybe one day, once we get enough guns for everybody. Until then, enjoy the time you have with it. From what Stanley says, you've earned it."

Finally, Old Glory slung over his back, Jonas headed out through cavernous door to the Vault, exiting into the small tunnel cut into bedrock. He had heard horror stories of how bodies and bones had been found when they'd first opened the Vault, the remains of refugees who had been denied entry. The Overmom had vowed to never let that happen again, and to date there were at least four new families in the safety of Vault 101, strays and lost souls from across the Wasteland who had found refuge and a purpose in their underground abode. The ancient wood and wire door that formed the final barrier to the outside swung open with a groan, and for the first time in a week Jonas Almodovar breathed fresh air. Well, relatively fresh. Post-apocalyptia didn't exactly smell sweet.

Humming along to Three Dog's centuries old songs, the young man emerged into a metal shack, walls of scrap iron and cinderblocks surrounding him. A guard sat in a folding metal chair next to the wooden door, a Combat Shotgun on his lap and a radio on the table next to him. If trouble came, he radioed the Vault and sent all outside workers into its safety before the great door rolled shut. At least in theory. Aside from the occasional drill, no real emergency had ever demanded that. The watchdog of Vault 101 gave Jonas a nod as the young man exited the small building, taking in the sights. The rocky outcropping he stood on looked out over the ruins of suburbia, trashed highway overpasses dotting the horizon. An ancient cracked road snaked down beneath him, leading into the remains of Springdale. Another, much larger building sat at the base of the hill, its construction more solid, its defenses visible. The Vault 101 Trading Post was not a place to trifled with. A crow's nest made atop telephone poles held a sniper's nest, and the walls of the metal and rock construction were lined with barbed wire. All trading was appointment only no exceptions.

In the opposite direction, up the hill, was Jonas's destination, the firing range. Calling it a range was being generous. In truth the whole setup was little more than a few chairs looking out down a semi barren expanse dotted with a few targets. The chairs kept their back towards the rocks, to insure no surprises from behind. Settling into one of the chairs, Jonas pulled up one of the folding tables and set himself up, his box of ammo close at hand. Idly, the young man took his shots. With a crack and a recoil, the gun sent its shot flying, striking the crude effigy of a Deathclaw square in its head. With a sigh, the young man worked the bolt and ejected the spent casing, catching it and pocketing the shiny copper. Bullets were expensive, and it paid to reuse whatever parts that one could. Glumly, he fired again.

The action was mechanical, his mind elsewhere. Jonas Almodovar yearned for adventure. He knew there had to be more to life than fixing and tinkering, more to life than an overprotective mother and a father that no one would tell him about. More to life that just Vault 1010. For all that he loved his home, and the people within it, he knew that the Wasteland was bigger than it. Others in Vault got to travel, got to see the world, so why couldn't he?

Through his grumblings, Jonas ran through all of his rounds, taking time to check his spread before gathering up the spent bullet casings and heading back to the Vault. As he returned the gun to Officer Gomez, he heard the grumblings of the Vault's great door rolling shut, the last of the day's workers returning home. Silently, he gave a prayer to whoever might be listening that he'd be able to tag along on the next caravan, that the Overmom would change her mind.

Destiny would soon come knocking.

**End. Please Review, let me know what you think. Sadly, action needs a buildup, but I assure it is coming. Questions, comments, or suggestions, just let me know. **


	2. Technical Difficulties

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Fallout franchise, and am merely borrowing elements of its awesome series to make this story. Please don't sue me. Special thanks to everyone who reviewed my first chapter. I hope that what's to come meets your expectations. Oh, and a warning to the more refined reader; in the grand tradition of Fallout's gritty, witty, grim apocalypse, coarse language may abound ahead.**

Jonas awoke, grumbling at his alarm, as he had done every day since he was little. _Well, littler,_ the young man thought ruefully as glanced at himself in the mirror. The unruly head of blond tangles did nothing to compensate for his short stature and slight frame. Scrawny and runt had been the choice words of the Vault's resident blockhead childhood bullies, but he had had the last laugh when career assignments rolled around and they'd been given manual labor and he got...a slightly better job. Jonas sighed again, surveying himself for a few more seconds. With Stanley's machines, the bots, and the computers, his quick hands and sharp eyes had found great use, but it was hardly a glamorous job. He'd need some kind of glory if he was to woo over Alicia, and patching up dear old Andy the Mr. Handy wasn't cutting it.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, attempted and then promptly abandoned the task of taming his hair and headed for the shower. A few minutes later, he was in his Vault utility suit, a glorified mechanic's coveralls, and headed down the hallways. It was the wee hours of the morning, the lights still on their low powered "night" mode, and the corridors of Vault 101 were silent, the gentle hum of machinery deep in its bowels reverberating throughout. Wordlessly, Jonas padded past the rest of the dormitories, past the OverMom's still empty office, arriving finally at the entry hall. Five security guards, all armed to teeth, withered old Stanley, and Andy himself were all gathered; work on the Vault's door was not taken lightly.

Stanley greeted him with a tired smile. "There you are Jonas," he announced, patting his protégé on the back. "What were you thinking, boy, keeping us waiting on something like this. Hey, well no matter now, the sooner we get started the sooner we can finish."

The old man gave Jonas no time to protest as his wrinkled old hands took his apprentice in an iron grip and dragged him along. "The last guards said they heard some extra creaks and groans closing up shop last night, so we have to give the old girl a full check up and run through," Stanley explained as he led Jonas forward. A large ladder had been set up in the middle of the floor, reaching up to where the mechanical arm that drew back the great door laid in waiting. Every inch of the mechanism had to tested, cleaned, and accounted for. A failure of the door would be catastrophic.

Before anyone could utter a complaint, old Stanley, toolbox in hand, began to clamber up the ladder like a grizzled old monkey, and Jonas hurried to stabilize it.

"Dad," Chief Gomez called out to his father-in-law, "you sure you're fine? Sure Jonas shouldn't be doing this?" His tone was distinctive, the voice of an adult speaking to a rambunctious child, or a stubborn senior.

Stanley waved away his son-in-law's complaints with a guffaw and a snort. "Son, I've been doing this since you were in diapers," the older man reassured the assembly as he opened up the machine. "There isn't a gear or wire in this place that I don't know inside and out. If the old girl was going to throw a curveball at me, she would've done it by now." With a grunt of satisfaction and a solid whack from his wrench, the mechanical arm whirred to life. Everyone assembled donned ear protection; the sound of the door opening could be deafening.

"Let's have a trial run," the old mechanic called down to his audience, and Chief Gomez obliged with a nod, pulling the lever on the console. The rumbling and grating of metal on metal grew exponentially as the mechanical arm suddenly jerked forward before completing the rest of its journey smoothly. The positioning of the ladder had been spot on; the arm swung down beside it, never so much as touching it. It docked in the blast door with a massive hiss of releasing pressure, and then the true voice of the machine stirred.

With metallic screeches and groans, the massive blast door was slowly drawn back into the vault, a deafening symphony that they had all heard a thousand times over. Then, something was different. Where once slow groans and screeches reigned, now pops and cracks came, the entire mechanism quaking as it went. Jonas watched mutely as Stanley's eyes went wide. The door was drawn all the way back when smoke began to trickle out from the arm, a few small streams at first, then a great acrid plume as the massive cog shaped door began to roll away.

Panic took over. Smoke stinging his eyes, Jonas whipped around to see Chief Gomez desperately pulling at the emergency stop lever, turning back just in time to watch as Stanley teetered on his ladder as he struggled down.

"Stanley!" Jonas cried, his voice drowned out by the roar of the machine, "Slow down, you have to be careful, its-" His words were cut off as a noise like a thunderclap rocked the hall, echoing and bouncing off of steel walls, leaving the ears of everyone assembled ringing and near deafened. A gout of oily flame shot forth from the opened panel on the mechanical arm as the machine died, and Jonas could only watch as Stanley began to topple like a rotting tree.

Looking back, the young man would not be able to truly say what had prompted him to act, gallantry or stupidity, but with arms outstretched, Jonas found himself rushing towards the old man who was dear to him as a grandfather. Walloped with the unexpected weight of the old man, Jonas found himself serving less as a catcher and more of a soft landing, as he was smacked to the ground, Stanley, crumpling on top of him.

Dazed, Jonas looked up to see security officers rushing about, his ears ringing as time slowed to a crawl. Officer Gomez hurried over to see to his grandfather, a second officer dousing the smoldering machinery with an ancient fire extinguisher. Chief Gomez was still furiously working to door controls, muffled curses tumbling from his mouth. With a dying hiss, the mechanical arm breathed its last, and the room fell silent. The young man felt himself being helped to his feet, and nodded numb thanks. Bracing his forehead with his hand, he was met with a warm, sticky feeling. Drawing it back in front of his faces showed fingers smeared with blood and grease. Sensation began to return, and his legs began to gave way as a throbbing agony took root in his head.

_Well this is a shitty start to a day,_ he thought blearily, before darkness overtook him.

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A low, repeating beep was the first thing his dim senses registered. Again and again it came, steady as a heartbeat, slow and measured, and with a groan Jonas cracked open leaden eyelids. Harsh white overhead lights greeted him, and the smell of antiseptic burnt his nostrils. With yet another groan, he forced himself up into a sitting position, cringing as a sharp pain shot through his chest. Nevertheless, he endured, and sat up, finding himself in the vault clinic. A glance down at his chest, the feel of the scratchy blanket on his bare legs, and a not unpleasant draft all told him that his modesty was protected only by a hospital gown. Before he could so much as blush, his mother was upon him, taking him in sobbing hug. The pain in his ribs forced his to protest the embrace, but her presence was still comforting.

Amata Almodovar, the OverMom, was a woman in her early thirties, eyes kind yet sharp, and stained red from tears, her brown hair held tight in a bun.

"Oh Jonas," she said, trying not to gush, "I was so worried. We got back from Megaton, saw what had happened, and, well," she paused, her tears breaking for a smile. "Oh, I'm just so happy you're okay."

"Mom," Jonas half-mumbled, rubbing his temples, "what happened?" Then, in a heartbeat, it all came back to him. The horrible metal groans and pops, the burn of the smoke, Stanley's fall; all became crystal clear. "Stanley," he croaked, suddenly aware of his bone dry throat, "where's Stanley, is , is he okay?" A bout of violent coughs overtook him, his mother wordlessly handing him a glass of water and letting him drink deep of it.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jonas caught his mother's somber look.

"He, he's going to be okay, right?" he asked, meekly.

His mother nodded, gesturing towards the white partition screen behind her. Jonas took in his surroundings truly for the first time. Two of the white screens shuttered him in on either side, the metal wall to his back, and a white sheet forming the door to his "room". The OverMom sat on a folding chair that they had no doubt brought in for her, and a small bedside table held the water glass, and more than a few cards wishing him better health.

"How long have I been out," Jonas asked, his voiced tinged with a sudden fear.

"The better part of a day," replied his mother, with a forced calm. "I, I got back from Megaton few hours after the accident, saw the damage." She sniffled. "It's around midnight now."

Jonas looked over his mom. Her clothes were disheveled, her face tear stained from hours of weeping.

"Go to bed mom," he said, softly. "You need it. I'm fine. Feel great. Really."

Amata Almodovar gave her son a half-hearted smile. "I'm not going anywhere, Jonas. Though I could use a snack." With a slight groan, she rose from the chair, stretching out. Jonas grimaced; he could tell she had been there for a while.

"I'm just going to run down to the cafeteria real quick. I'll grab you something. Call for Dr. Serdet if you need anything. I'm sure he's going to want to run some tests to make sure you're okay."

With a final half smile, Jonas watched his mother disappear through the rustling sheet, and began to sink back down into the pillow. The sudden realization struck him like shrapnel from the explosion, and he, painfully, jolted back up; he hadn't found out what had happened to Stanley.

**End chapter. Hope you all enjoy. Please keep up the reviews and comments, and thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. Questions, comments, or concerns; any feedback is appreciated. Until next time, folks.**


	3. Plan of Action

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Fallout franchise. If I did, would I really be wasting its marvelous potential on a little fan fiction? Yah, didn't think so. Thanks again to all my reviewers, hope you enjoy.**

Jonas stood at the foot of Stanley's bed, back in his own clothes, his mouth drawn tight. The old man was ashen, a respirator humming as it helped him to breath. The great sprawling family Stanley had had been coming and going all day, he was told. Susie Mack-Gomez, his granddaughter, had taken the night shift, evidently, as she was curled asleep in the chair next to the bed.

Looking about, Jonas found he had only the grizzled Dr. Serdet for company. The middle aged man seemed out of place in the white lab coat. Clouted ears and a crooked, beak-like nose spoke of a rough and tumble youth, and his dark eyes were quick, never staying on one spot for longer than a moment. His bald head reflected the glare of the overhead lights, three long scars tracing down from its crown, down along his cheek, and tapering off at his chin. He claimed it had been a Deathclaw, and no one was there to refute it. Leon Serdet was not a comforting man, but his medical knowledge and experience with the wastes had made him invaluable to the people of Vault 101, and had earned him a place within it.

"Tests came back clean, Jonas," the doctor said walking up beside his patient, his voice like gravel. "A few bumps and scrapes, with a bruised rib the worst of it. Should be fine real soon, but if it's really paining you can take a stimpack, though because it isn't life threatening you'll need to reimburse the Vault."

Jonas hardly heard him, his eyes fixed on Stanley's frail form. "It should've been me," he murmured, half to himself. Dr. Serdet's clap on the back of the head snapped him out of the reverie, and whirling about he faced him angrily.

"What the hell was that for," Jonas hissed, mindful of the sleeping woman, as he glared up at Serdet's gaunt and scarred face.

"Pull you head out your ass, kid," the wastelander replied coolly, his beady eyes cutting through to the soul. "The past is the past, and fretting about it ain't gonna' do nothing to change that. Stanley is going to be alright, I know that for certain, but until he wakes up, you're the only one we've got to keep this place in one piece."

The older man's harsh words cut like a knife, and Jonas looked away, shame and indignation swirling together in his mind. Embittered, he met the doctor's gaze. "I shouldn't have let Stanley up on the ladder, it's my fault, all of this!"

Behind them, Susie stirred, and the two hurriedly lowered their voices. Serdet stared at him, as impassive and expressionless as the steel walls around them. "Well, then," he started, voice neutral, level. "What are you going to do about it then? Bitching about it seems to be working wonders." Leaving his sarcasm hanging drier than a desert wind, the doctor walked back over to his desk, and casually began to type.

Jonas surveyed him with a cold fury, his anger burning at himself just as hotly. With a final glare, the young man swallowed his pride and headed for the Vault's entry hall, not sparing a look back. With his patient out of sight, the doctor cracked a small smile.

"Sometimes all they need is a good kick in the ass to get back on track," he said to himself idly, before returning to his work.

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Jonas descended from the ladder, grim faced and marked with grease.

"It's no use," he announced hoarsely to the group before him, the leaders of the Vault, and the arbiters of its fate. He took their silence as his cue to continue. "The door and the arm themselves are fine, but the mechanism that gets the arm in position and controls its movements is shot to hell." He pointed a stained finger up to the blackened section of the robotic arm, near its base. "I checked the manifests for spare parts," The young man paused, swallowing hard and licking cracked lips. "We don't have 'em. Not all of them at least. Some we could machine, maybe , with the right tech. But that's a stretch."

Chief Gomez audibly swore, only to receive a sharp elbow in the ribs from his wife, who served as the Vault's quartermaster, overseeing supplies and stock. Troubled murmurs came from the rest, until finally the OverMom stepped forward. "Jonas," she started, the barest hint of tremble in her voice, "are you sure?"

The young man felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. He steeled himself, stiffened his jaw, and delivered his final verdict. "Completely. I'll salvage what I can, but more than half the components need replacing. The thing almost needs to be rebuilt." He hesitated before continuing. "There, there's something else too."

Silence reigned, and the young man mentally cursed, hoping, praying, that he had made a mistake. But there was no denying it. The evidence was there, and it made him sick at the thought. "It's, it's possible that this was sabotage." Five low voices became chaotic shouts . Cries of impending doom and coming anarchy, rivers of blood, treachery and invasions of raiders-

"Enough!"

Chief Gomez silenced the room. Frustrated, he turned to Jonas. "Why do you thinks its sabotage, kid?"

Jonas shook his head. "Vault-Tec was cutting edge. I've read the files, studied the designs; these things were built to last centuries, even with daily use. A random failure could happen, but it's unlikely. Really unlikely. And, and the way things went wrong in there, its looks intentional." Jonas felt sweat on his brow, his throat dry once more. The thought that they had been betrayed was utterly terrifying.

Chief Gomez swore once more, and the mutterings of doom resumed. The Overseer eventually reigned in control of the small crowd.

"Everyone calm down," she commanded, in a level tone, any trace of fear in her voice buried. "We'll get through this. There's no sense in skirting around the truth; we're going to need to send out a group to get those parts."

Uproar resumed. names were suggested, then thrown aside, voices raised and nerves struck. Jonas stood watching it, silently, until the seed of a thought was planted in his mind. _Why can't I go?_

It was so radical, so profound, so _simple_. His stomach turned and writhed within him. The adults were still bickering, but things seemed to be cooling down. _Now or never,_ he told himself.

"I'll go."

His voice was a croak, but it silenced the room nonetheless. All eyes were on him, including his mother's. Her face was frozen, contorted in shock. Jonas swallowed and felt cold sweat on his brow; no turning back now.

"You need someone who knows the parts. The merchants could rob us blind otherwise, sell us the wrong thing or give us a defect and we'd be none the wiser. I'm the only one who knows what to look for, with Stanley out of commission. The robot can handle basic fixes while I'm gone." He flicked his eyes from face to face, praying his pitch had worked. His mother's steely gaze caught him.

"I can do, this. Trust me."

His words hung in the air before Gomez came to his rescue.

"The kid's got a point, Amata," the grizzled old security man started. "If anyone else goes, we're going to get scammed, and at this point we can't afford that. I say we let him go."

The rest of the council slowly gave their assent, voices rising until the noise of conversation ran hopelessly into a muddled mess. The Overseer restored order once more

"This is a democracy," she forced herself to spit out. "The council rules as a group. We, we'll put it to a vote. All in favor of allowing Jonas to go on the expedition?"

Four of the five assembled raised their hands, slowly. Amata grimaced. "That's it then," she said, in a small voice, eyes downcast. "Get a team together and outfit them with what we've got. The rest we can buy in Megaton. I'll be in my office."

With that, the Overseer of Vault 101 turned tail and left, each step echoing through the metal halls, looking as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. Jonas felt his victory turn to bitter ash in his mouth, and he could only wonder if he had done the right thing.

**End chapter. thank you all for your patience. I know it's been a long time since the last update, and I know this is small. thing is I've got a number of projects running right now, and finding time for them all has been proving difficult. Sadly, I have to pick favorites in this case, and since Legacy here had the least developed plot, it may be put on hold for a while. I will try to update, but they won't be with the kind of frequency I usually would. Sorry folks. Please review**


	4. Welcome to Megaton

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Zip, nada, jack squat. You get the picture. Anyways, thanks to all my reviewers. Please keep the feedback up. Alright then, here we go, chapter 4...**

It was a cold windy morn in the Capital Wasteland when three men clambered out of the entrance of Vault 101. A rare early morning smattering of clouds had obscured the oppressive sun that beat down on the desert which had once been a proud nation's crown jewel, and the travelers were grateful for it. Any respite from the heat was welcome.

Two men wore the paltry armor of Vault security guards, with assault rifles slung over their backs, pistols and ammo at their belts. As thin as it was, armor was still armor, and their younger companion felt underdressed. Younger, shorter, and slighter of frame, there had been no spare armor for him. Jonas Almodovar had settled for his Vault suit with a few pieces of scrap sewn on as armor plates, and a pair of old biker's goggles to keep the dust from his eyes, leaving his sandy blond hair to the mercy of the winds. He had Old Glory, the splintery, older-than-time hunting rifle, strapped across his back, a bandolier of ammo across his chest. Pistol, knife, and Stimpacks all jostled against each other for space on his belt. The shack that formed the final barrier between the Vault and the outside world had held a piece of mirror, and the young man caught sight of himself before leaving. _Well. at lease I look the part,_ he thought glumly. Guilt still panged him over his mother's reaction.

The three marched in silence down the shattered asphalt as they headed towards Springdale. Jonas looked over his companions, and frowned. Officer Hammond, for all his skill with the weapons, had a mean streak. Jonas remembered his mom once saying that he had lost his dad, and had never been the same since. Mikken was nearly the opposite. A tall rail of a man with laughable aim, he could talk his way into, or out of, just about anything, if rumor was to be believed. The young man prayed it would be enough to sweet-talk the people of Megaton.

Their trek was silent in the early morning calm, a rare hour where the monsters of night slept, and the beasts of the day were still yet to wake. In that quiet, the barren fields seemed almost peaceful. Then they arrived at the ruins. Bombed out husks of picket fence homes sat like corpses, the shattered remains of the American Dream, purged by nuclear fire, leaving the survivors to pick through their ashes. And picked through they had. The wrecks were devoid of nearly everything of value, and of many things that weren't. Crooked mailboxes stood in front of black and brown lawns, the burnt out shells of fusion powered cars rusting away to nothingness. Jonas gave them a wide berth; the people of Vault 101 had educated themselves, and everyone with gun training new that a stray round into one of those reactors could mean an early grave. And one hell of a boom.

The three marched on, leaving the houses behind them. An ancient gas station sat at the end of the road, decrepit dumpsters and a lone Nuka-Cola machine, valiantly flickering on, at its rear. Hammond, who was leading the pack, turned right at it, heading down a well worn dirt path through the hills. Jonas followed, but spared a glance off to the left, where the looming silhouette of Springdale's school sat, forlorn and abandoned. _And hopefully it will stay that way,_ he thought. Stories of the last time raiders had taken it chilled him to the bone.

The three marched on. A wide arching sign on corrugated sheet metal sat alongside the road, and in sloppy painted letters it proudly proclaimed _Megaton,_ with a broad arrow pointing the way. A few steps later, its message proved true, and Jonas gave a low whistle. He had seen the videos and pictures, even read the file the OverMom kept on the place. But nothing prepared him for the sight of the sight of the real thing. Massive walls soared up from the ground, cobbled together with bits and pieces of anything metal that the townsfolk could get their hands on, a scrap iron bulwark against the horrors of the wastes. Men with guns glinting in the sunlight patrolled the top, vigilant eyes kept on the horizon. Directly before the three travelers sat the gate, a ramshackle rig hooked up to a jet turbine. Here, Mikken took the lead.

"Follow me, boys. I know who to kiss up to and who to squeeze." It was true; before his acceptance into the Vault, the skinny man had worked caravans. The three went onwards, Mikken whistling a merry tune, only to be stopped by the first jaw-dropping sight of the day; a robot in a cowboy hat.

Jonas watched dumbstruck as the metal man clinked and clanked its way over towards them. _Protectron model,_ he thought to himself, rifling through memories of studied blueprints and schematics. _Looks like a walking tin can up close, but it can fry you at 50 meters._

The Protrectron ambled towards them with stiff, wooden movements, its stubby limbs swinging awkwardly. It stopped them a few yards out from the gate.

"Hello," it greeted, voice mechanical and monotone. "Please state the nature of your business in Megaton."

Mikken stepped forward. "We're here to buy the services of a guide to Rivet City. We're from Vault 101."

Lights in the robot's bulbous "head" flickered. "Validating statement," it intoned. "Please wait." A few seconds later, there came a quick ding and the robot stepped back. "Confirmed. Welcome to Megaton. Please enjoy your stay."

With that, the city of scrap's less than fearsome guardian returned to the gate, and with a roar the jet engine mounted atop it sputtered to life, cables and pulleys tugging up the massive metal slabs that formed Megaton's front door. _Deputy Weld_ as the robot's chassis had proudly proclaimed, had been underwhelming, but the guns of the hawk-eyed sentries above seemed a very real threat. Mikken walked through the gate with a swagger in his step, like a man returning home, while his two companions followed warily behind him. The inner gates of Megaton swung open with a mighty creak, and Jonas felt his breath leave him as he beheld the sight before him, and thanked God for the Vault's tetanus shot.

Hovels of scrap metal crowded each other for space on the rim of the giant crater, shacks and shops knitted together by serpentine dirt paths and rickety walkways, their supports a spindly skeleton. The town was built in layers, one crooked home stacked haphazardly atop another, each block of squalor rooted in the parched brown earth which formed the bowl the settlement had sprung up in. The young man peered down the slope of the hill, trying to find what laid at the center of it all, and stopped in his tracks.

"No way," he breathed, incredulous.

There, in the center of town, was a bomb. Not just any bomb, an atomic bomb. A city-buster, the summit of man's power to destroy, bundled up and tucked away in a fat metal shell. _The stories were true_, he thought, struggling to reel his jaw back up from the dusty ground. _Better hope to God that it really is dead. _Tales of the Lone Wanderer were bedtime stories for little kids, and the young man prayed that they held a grain of truth at their center.

All around them, townspeople bustled about their business. Stray brahmin, the mottled, two headed cattle of the wastes, choked down whatever patch of scraggly grass managed to take hold in the dirt, and men, women, and children in patchwork clothes scurried around. Jonas beheld the people with a strange sense of awe. Here in this community, living in conditions that seemed abysmal at first look, he saw no despair. Indeed, the eyes of the people of Megaton held in them a particular spirit, a determination and vigor. The youth was taken aback by it. He took another look at the city around him.

Sitting off to his left, like the eye of a storm, sat a single house, propped up on stilts and built atop another shack, utterly devoid of people or movement. Not a soul moved near it, and every window, the glass already dirtied from two centuries of decay, was coated with dust. _Weird to have such prime location left abandoned,_ he pondered, before a shadow fell upon the three travelers and roused him from his thoughts.

Its owner reminded the young man of a ranger from the Old West, just like in the Vault's library. Hat and long duster hung from a powerful frame, and shaded a weathered face that was the color of the brown earth beneath them, and just as furrowed. His clothes were a lighter shade of tan, mottled by dust stains. The cracked handle and barrel of a Chinese assault rifle peeked out from over his shoulder, a warning to all. Ancient eyes surveyed them impassively. They flicked over the three newcomers, and a small frown formed when they fell upon the insignia of the Vault, the stylized 101.

"I had told the Overseer that we were done with negotiations for now. Your requests were reasonable, but we have our own interests to look out for. Maybe some time in the future we can resume talks. But not now."

His voice was soft but commanding, steel wrapped in velvet. Mikken stepped forward, and met the man's impassive gaze with an easy smile.

"We're just here to do business, Sheriff. No politics involved."

The Sheriff raised a wary brow. "What sort of 'business', are we talking about?"

"Relax. Just looking for some guides to help get us to Rivet City. Quick and easy. We'll be out of your hair in no time."

Mikken's charm was infectious, it seemed, for the Sheriff gave a faint nod of approval.

"Would that I still had any hair," he answered, with a raspy chuckle. "Alright then, boys, carry on. You may want to try Moriarty's if you're looking for muscle, though don't let that old snake who owns it talk you into anything. Bastard can't be trusted."

The old man sniffed, and then, seemingly for the first time, noticed Jonas, small as he was, standing behind the two other men. The sheriff gave him a long hard look, tired brown eyes cutting down to his soul. For a second that felt an eternity, he met that gaze, before the old sheriff shook his head and scoffed.

"I must be going senile," he said, "maybe it is time to pass the torch on to Harden." He returned to his gaze to Jonas. "My apologies for staring, son. You just look so much like someone, someone I haven't seen in a long, long time." The old man sighed. "Don't you all go making trouble, you hear?"

With that, the aged sheriff of Megaton departed them, muttering under his breath, leaving the three Vault dwellers alone. Mikken stroked his thin moustache thoughtfully before turning to his companions.

"Well that went pretty good I thought," he said cheerfully. "Now who's in the mood for some two hundred year old whiskey?"

**End Chapter. Please review. I apologize for its brevity, but short can be sweet. Until next time folks.**


	5. Embarkment

**Disclaimer: None of its mine, folks. Just borrowing it. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and please keep up the feedback. Makes writing this all the more enjoyable. Now, back to the action. Also, word to wise, as in Fallout, things are going to get a bit vulgar, and a fair bit violent. You've been warned**

Moriarty's Saloon was a simple affair. The bar dominated the center of the room, attended by a tired looking woman who looked about forty. Men of seedy caliber sat hunched at their barstools, nursing drinks two centuries or two days old while tunes overlaid with static blared from an ancient radio. The woman banged the side of the machine angrily.

"Damn thing hasn't worked right ever since Gob left," she said to a patron, with a tinge of sorrow. The man, clad in scarred leather armor and a scruffy goatee with smatterings of grey, nodded sympathetically before returning to his whiskey. When she noticed the two men who entered, Mikken having wisely told the hotheaded Officer Hammond to wait outside. She smiled.

"Mikken," she said warmly, brushing back her auburn hair and smoothing out her shirt, "what are you doing here, you old dog?" She slipped out from behind the bar and took him in a hug.

"I could ask you the same, Nova," the skinny man countered. "Moving up in the world I see?"

The woman's smile turned forlorn. "Things have changed since the last time you blew through. Gob finally got fed up with it all one day, and made a break for Underworld...with half of Moriarty's money." A spark of vindictive joy returned to her eyes, if only for a moment. "Last I heard he'd set himself up pretty nice down round those parts.

Mikken nodded appreciatively. "Hope the promotion came with a raise," he told her, sympathetically. Nova shrugged. "I finally paid off the debt, but Megaton's all I know," she said, with a mournful smile. "Now the old coot's got some new pretty young thing to service the patrons after I get them nice and drunk." She cocked an ear towards the second floor, where muffled moans could be heard through the thin metal walls, and sighed, shaking her head. "At least she enjoys her work." Picking up her abandoned cigarette from an ashtray at the bar, she took a long draw, and smoke poured out from her nostrils. "But enough about ancient history. You boys look like you're here for business."

"That we are," Mikken answered with a wink, casually taking a seat. "My compadres and I are looking to secure the services of a few guides to help us get to Rivet City, and back. Any suggestions?"

Nova smoked while she mulled things over. "Why you need a guide," she asked after a few moments of deliberation. "You ran with the caravans for years. I know you know the routes."

Jonas watched as the thin man grinned. "Now you and me both know they haven't gotten any safer," he chided. "Besides, there are ways people can go that a fully loaded brahmin can't."

"Ways that can be much faster," the former prostitute retorted. "What's the big hurry, Vault-boy," she finished with a lascivious smile.

Mikken met her smile with one of his own. "Would that it was something exciting, like the good old days. Just some science bullshit. " He gave and exaggerated sigh. "Yes, gone are the days when adventures were just around the corner, and death just one wrong step away."

Nova laughed. "God, you haven't changed a bit. And neither has your bullshit. Now I _know_ that you need to get out more. Wasteland hasn't changed. Same crazy shit as before. And the raiders have finally found their balls again, even with the heat the Brotherhood's been laying on them." She smoked and coughed before continuing. "Smart choice looking for some more muscle. I'll see who I can rustle up," she added, with a smile and a wink towards Mikken. "For old time's sake."

With that, she sauntered off, leaving an incredulous Jonas with his older companion.

"How did you do that?" the young man asked, taking a seat next to him.

Mikken gave a wry smile. "All it takes is the right words, kid," he answered, leaning back against the bar as if he owned the place. "Make connections, then use 'em." The man laughed. "Being a silver tongued bastard helps too."

A second, nameless bartender came by to take drink orders. Mikken took a glass of scotch; he ordered a Nuka. The cap popped off of the centuries old beverage with a hiss of escaping gas, and the first hints of cola wafted past his nose. The former caravaner gave a chuckle.

"How about a real man's drink, Jonas," he offered, sliding his glass across the rusted bar to him. "You ain't under momma's watchful eye anymore."

Jonas bit his lip, in contemplation for only a moment, before grabbing the glass and taking a hearty swig. The youth struggled to choke it down, and quickly chased it with a swish of Nuka. Mikken howled.

"It's alright kid," he said with a wide smile. "You'll get a taste for it soon enough."

Jonas forced a smile and suppressed a cough. The older man laughed once more, and this time Jonas joined in. When a third voice joined them, all conversation in the bar stopped. Craning his neck and turning, The youth found its source in the form of an old man descending the rickety stairs, his hair and beard a wild crop of white and grey.

"Well, don't stop on my account," the man said in a strange, lilting accent. "As you were, folks."

Conversation gradually resumed throughout the bar, and with a swagger in his step, the man walked over to the two Vault dwellers.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" The wild haired stranger seemed to savor each word, clever eyes flitting between the two of them. "Those Vaulties must be in a sorry shape to be sending out their pet pack rat." He gave a venomous smile to Mikken, before jerking his head back towards the door. "That blockheaded brute Hammond is as subtle as Super Mutant. And what do we have here," he remarked, turning towards Jonas. "A wee babe fresh from mumsy's tit? Wait, I know that face." His eyes narrowed for a moment, bushy eyebrows furrowing. The old man's laugh exploded, rumbling up from his stomach.

The old man cackled, and Jonas could only look to Mikken, who was equally confused.

"Oh this is rich," the old man managed through his chuckles. "Three in a row they've come to old Moriarty, all looking for something." When Moriarty saw their confusion, he howled once more. "What, you don't know?" he asked, almost incredulously. "Oh that's too good, too good." He tittered once more.

Jonas hardened his eyes. He had had enough of getting laughed at by this coot. "Know what?" he demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh I'm afraid it ain't my place to say, boy. Ask your darling mum next time you see her." Moriarty gave a smile that was pure poison.

Jonas felt his eyes go wide. "How did you know who-"

"Information's a good, boy," Moriarty answered, mirth draining from his voice. "And a profitable one at that. I make it a point to know who is who in the Wasteland, especially when they happen to be living under me own backyard."

Jonas tried, and failed, to keep a straight face and a polite tone. He couldn't help but scowl at this old man, who mocked him and lorded secrets over him.

Moriarty took notice, and shrugged. "You don't have to like someone to do business with them, boy." He gave the same poisonous smile. "Now what can old Moriarty do you for?"

Mikken cleared his throat before answering. "Nova's got us taken care of, thanks though," he said, hoping to defuse the situation.

Moriarty scowled, but acquiesced. "I bet that old whore does," he scowled, noting with satisfaction the slight twitch it elicited from Mikken. For a second, the youth thought his companion was going to answer, but the former caravaner just looked away, and Moriarty grinned in victory.

"That's what I thought, Mickey." Moriarty shrugged before turning away. "Enjoy the drinks, boys."

With that, the bar's proprietor disappeared back into his saloon, leaving Jonas to face his companion.

"What was that all about?" he demanded, and Mikken sighed.

"Look," he said resignedly. "Moriarty's got dirt on everyone. He makes his living, and keeps his skin, by selling to the highest bidder, and never picking favorites. " The older man took a sip of his whiskey, savoring it as it went down, before continuing. "You have the advantage of being young. Not a lot of dirt to have on you. Us old dogs though," he shook his head and drained his glass, "well we got us some ghosts."

Before the confused young man could inquire further, Nova returned, and gestured for them to follow. Mikken scratched his scruffy chin and rose to his feet.

"Well, there's our cue, kid. Time to go meet the candidates."

oooooooooooo oooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooo

The cloaked stranger dragged the blubbering, blubbery slaver who fancied himself a rajah past the corpses of his guards, bleeding out on the ancient stone floor. Cursing and crying, the slaver called out promises to his captor in slang marred Hindi, biting back screams of pain as his shattered legs were dragged over bits of rubble.

"Women," he cried, "a harem of the finest girls from all the seven tribes." The cloaked stranger had made no answer, so his desperate prisoner moved on. "Land then? Land and clean water, a great plantation free from the toxins of the Yamuna. All of this and more I can give you with but a word." His only answer was a sharp kick to his gelatinous belly, and the slaver could only whimper.

Further and further he dragged the quivering mound of fat, past the broken bodies of the former ruler's guardsmen, each and every one utterly dismembered, blood and gore plastering the walls. Black scorch marks marred the stone walls around them, piles of ash marking the fate of the more fortunate guards. The slaver looked up at his captor's back, a sword and a laser rifle slung across it. For a moment, rage overcame terror, and like a drowned man clawing towards drift wood, he lunged for the gun.

Quick as lightning, the stranger intercepted his pudgy arm, cast it to the ground, and smashed the hand beneath a booted foot. Finger bones snapped with a sickening crunch, and the slaver howled and cursed.

"Foreign dog!" he screamed, a third limb now useless to him. "Casteless, clan-less cur! I spit on you!" The fat man succeeded only in coating his numerous chins in bloody spittle.

Soon they were at the doors, warm night breeze carrying the chants of the crowd outside them in. Chants calling for his death. The slaver swallowed hard.

"Why?" he asked pathetically, when his captor stopped before the doors. "What am I to you? What problem am I to you?"

For an agonizing second, the man was silent. Then ,he turned to face his prisoner, and let the cloak fall away. A rugged face, weathered by hard living, looked out from beneath a mane of shaggy, sandy blond hair, with a rough beard to match. A long, white scar traced its way down a sun tanned cheek.

"You became my problem," the man answered, in rough, heavily accented, Hindi. "You became my problem when your men killed the friends I travelled with, and when I saw how the people here were treated by their _king,"_ he spat the final word with hate, cold eyes honing in on the terrified slaver. "But most of all, you became an obstacle. Something in my way of getting home. After that, there was only one way this could end."

Pleading mercy and blabbering pathetically, the slaver screamed when the stranger dragged him through the great vaulted doors of the Taj Mahal, and cast him down the steps to where a mob of his former subjects, battered, bloodied, and starving, were storming the courtyard. All around him, carnage reigned as the slavers were devastated. With the slave collars' broadcast tower destroyed, they were helpless before the horde of those they had oppressed. Bleeding on every bump down, the slaver king rolled to a stop at the foot of the steps, moaning and screaming and crying. The former slaves set into him with stolen and makeshift weapons, and the Lord of the River of Poison found his end on the sharpened end of a shovel.

Taking a breath, the stranger surveyed his work. It had not needed to end this way, but the slavers had brought it upon themselves. Taking hold of his laser rifle, the man took aim and fired. The Lone Wanderer rejoined the fight.

**End Chapter. Surprises abound, eh? Tune in next time to find out more. Please review. TIl next time folks**


	6. Fellow Travelers

**Disclaimer: On the odd chance any kind of Bethesda exec or lawyer may be trawling the site and stumble upon this little story, this here is for you; I don't own any of it, and please don't sue me. Hey there folks. It's been a while, but what can I say; I've been busy. Thanks to all who reviewed; your feedback is much appreciated, and it helps me improve. Also, public service announcement kiddies; coarse language ahead, so if you don't like it, get the $&#% out.**

** Alright, well, done with all that sappy crap. Now onto the good stuff, and one of everyone's favorite foul mouthed denizens of Megaton...**

Nova led the two Vault dwellers off to a side room, where two very different men sat waiting for them. In one corner, sulking almost, was what looked like a fuzzy mountain; a massive man with a wild mane of hair, tangled beard, and a cloak of reeking furs across his back. The stench hit them like a wall as they entered the room; it almost overpowered to smell of vomit and piss that permeated the bar. Almost, but not quite. Jonas raised a brow at the sight of the sledgehammer slung over the craggy, hairy man; a weapon of that size took prodigious strength to wield, but its owner seemed more than capable. The youth watched Mikken as he observed this wild man. No trace of recognition flitted across the old caravaner's eyes. This changed as his gaze swept onto the next figure. A telling smirk crept onto Mikken's face.

"Jericho," he started, shaking his head. "You're still kicking? I would've sworn some lucky bastard would have finished you off by now. That or lung cancer."

The man called Jericho looked up from the cigarette he was rolling, and the pile of spent ones sitting in a nearby ashtray, to face him. It seemed all the hair on his head had migrated to his chin; that or he had been stealing swatches of fur from the monster next to him. A ragged goatee, fringed here and there with grey, helped hide a cruel mouth. Quick eyes darted about, drinking up each detail.

"Mikken," came his answer, and immediately the caravener's prediction of causes of death became all the more credible. Jericho's voice was as rasping and grating as sandpaper, with the distinctive tinge of a heavy smoker. "Here I was thinking some STD from your fuck doll over there," he continued, jerking a stained thumb towards Nova, "would have rotted you away from the dick down. "

"The big hairy motherfucker is Jean-Claude," Nova said, hotly, to Mikken and Jonas, ignoring Jericho's roundabout insult. "He's got an accent, but he can talk." she paused to straighten her hair. "He can tell you his own damn story. I'll leave you _gentlemen_ to your business." With her final words spat in mock sincerity, Nova turned heel and exited the room, leaving the four men to their own devices.

Taking a long draw of his latest cigarette, Jericho gestured towards the remaining chairs at the table, and the four men all sat at the small circular piece of furniture, a rusted piece of ironwork. Jean-Claude crunched his massive frame into the small folding chair allotted to him, and to Jonas it seemed the chair wouldn't last very long. Best to make things quick then.

Mikken hocked a lob of spit into a nearby trashcan, before turning a wary eye to the large, and smelly, man. "Dickhead over there," Mikken began, jerking a finger towards Jericho, "I know. But you're new. So what's the story, big boy? Why you offering your services? And for that matter," the wizened caravaner turned to face Jericho once more, "what the hell are you doing here? I thought you had a pretty good deal going on here?"

When Jericho moved to speak, Mikken shushed him. "Fuzz ball first. You'll get your turn." Clearing his throat, he turned once more to Jean-Claude. "Please begin," he said, cordially, with an artificial smile.

Jean-Claude met his gaze. "Do not call me boy, little man," he started, with a scowl. His voice was a guttural growl, yet it carried with it a nasally tone completely foreign to Jonas's ears. "I am from a place far to the North. Very far." The man spoke slowly, and Jonas was grateful for that; it gave him time to decipher the words. Nova had been right about the accent. "For to make the journey home, I am requiring funds for supplies. That is why I offer my skills."

Finished with his rumblings, the big man settled back into the slouch the small chair forced him into. Jonas watched as Mikken stared at the man, his thin hands a steeple beneath his chin. The youth looked as well. Jean-Claude's face was craggy as a mountain, and not even the tangles of his thick brown beard could hide that. It was almost impossible to tell where beard flowed into hair flowed into fur; it was all one hopeless tangle. But it was not the hair of the man that caught his notice; it was the eyes.

With the body of a brute, he had expected the mind of a child in this one, but the eyes told otherwise. Twin, steely orbs, they met Mikken's level gaze with a stare of their own, and an animal cunning lurked beneath it. It gave the young man chills. Finally, after a second that felt an eternity, Mikken nodded.

"You'll do," he said, with a nod, before turning back to Jericho. A sugary sweet smile crept across his face. "And now it's your turn , Princess," he said, with condescension.

"You Vaultie fuckers have a funny way of asking for help," the man snarled. "How do you know I won't just get up and walk away?"

"Because you wouldn't be here if you didn't need the money, asshole," Mikken snapped back.

"Fair enough," Jericho answered, shrugging. "This here job is gonna' be my retirement fund. One last fat payday, so I can happily smoke and fuck and drink myself to death. How's that sound to you?"

Mikken took it all in stride. "Well," he began, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back, "it sounds to me like I have two highly motivated individuals here. So here's the terms." Just like that, Mikken went from the laid back, casual conversationalist, to the steel nerved negotiator, his tone carrying an air of finality to it. "The job is simple. Escort to Rivet City and back, with a stop at the Citadel on the return trip. You each get 300 caps here, and 400 on safe return." A hard glint came into his eyes. "And before anyone gets any ideas, we aren't carrying the other four hundred on us. The Vault has it, and you'll only get it upon our safe return. If all goes well, there may even be bonus pay. So what do you say, gentlemen?" Mikken had laid out the terms in rapid fire, his voice steel. All that remained was the answers of the two candidates.

ooooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooo ooooooooooo

A few minutes later, the Vault dwellers departed the bar with their two new employees in tow. Hannon joined them, laden down with goods from Craterside Supply, and the expedition was ready to embark. With the provisions equally distributed amongst them, the five men set off for the town gate in silence .

Jonas found his gaze inexorably drawn once again to the lone house on the hill. It sat apart from all the others, held up on metal stilts atop the Brass Lantern restaurant, though the young man could see a section of metal that fed into the baked, brown earth, the rust and grime upon it a shade lighter than the rest of the house. On its roof sat a structure that could only be a windmill, a great rusted contraption whose blades spun languidly in the day's light breeze, wires and cables feeding power down into the house itself. So much time and effort had been put into it, yet no one dared go near. It confounded him.

"Whatcha looking at, kid?"

Mikken's voice shook him from his thoughts and back into reality.

"The house up there," Jonas answered, stumbling a bit for his words. "Prime location, but no one goes near it. It's weird."

The caravaner nodded, stroking the scruff on his chin. "There's a reason for that," came his response. "That there is the Wander's house. Ain't nobody been up there in, God, going on seventeen years now, I think."

Jonas struggled to hold his disbelief."The Wanderer? For real?" The youth shook his head. "What do you think is up there? I don't know which of the stories are real, and which ones are just for kids."

Mikken nodded. "Fair enough," he said, shrugging. "But there's a grain of truth somewhere in every pile of bullshit. The Wanderer was real enough, even if some of his tall tales aren't. Folks'll spice up the stories however they like, but at the end of the day, the Wanderer was a Vault boy, just like you, who got an itch for adventure one day." After that, the caravaner rubbed his temples. "Shit boy, I need more booze before we start getting deep like that."

Jonas looked on, silent. "There has to be some good stuff up there," he said, finally. "Why hasn't anyone tried taking it?"

"Oh they've tried, kid. Damn place is booby trapped."

Jonas raised a brow. "No shit?"

"Dead serious, kid. Some funky kind of scanner thing hooked up to the door that checks everyone trying to get in. If you try and force it, gives one hell of a shock. Mini turrets installed on the roof pick off the more determined thieves, and word is that there's a Mr. Handy robot in there with a mean streak and a flame thrower." He gave a half laugh. "First dozen or so poor bastards who tried getting in killed themselves. After that, reputation and the sheriff kept everyone else away."

Jonas gave a low whistle.

"Yep," Mikken answered. "Course the main thing is fear. Any crook who tries has to be shitting their pants at the thought of Mr. Wanderer coming back home one day, and hunting down the bastards who took his shit."

"That'll do it," Jonas answered, nodding. By now the house was out of view, and the gates of Megaton opened out into the wastes. Mikken pulled the young man back for a final word.

"What do you make of our hired help," he asked, softly.

Jonas was silent for a moment, weighing what he had seen of the two men. "I don't trust them."

"Smart boy. Jericho there is a former raider, and I hear old habits die hard. As for the fur ball there," Mikken shook his head, "I don't know what to make of him, but he's smarter than he lets on, and the look in his eyes isn't promising."

"So what do we do?" Jonas asked, hushed.

"There's nothing we can do, kid. We needed fast, and these are the only boys available for the job. So we do nothing. We watch em, but we carry on business as usual. Comprende?"

The youth nodded understanding, and Mikken grunted approval.

"Might not be so bad having that gorilla Hannon along," the man said, redoubling his pace to catch back up with the rest of the party. "With friends like these, who needs enemies?"

oooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooo

He found her huddled in a corner, her eyes red and tear-stained, a pistol clutched in her hand. On the floor before her was one of the slaver king's men, his pants around his ankles, and a bullet in his skull. With a sigh, the Lone Wanderer sheathed his weapons, and sank down to sit next to her.

"Mei," he called softly to the girl. "Look at me." Years of captivity had produced a changed man. And one who was fluent in Chinese.

The girl looked up at him, with silent tears, her hair disheveled and her clothes ripped, the pain behind her eyes sharp and cutting. It was a look that brought about memories in her guardian.

He had seen that look in the ten-year-old's eyes before, a look of pain, desperation, and sheer bloody terror. He remembered it like it was yesterday.

ooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooo

The sounds of battle had raged around him, but consigned to mechanics garage that was his quarters, and chained by that accursed headband, he could do nothing. The metal door snapped open, only for a moment, letting in the savage rip of machine guns and the bloodthirsty roars of the feral attackers. The thin, terrified girl had slipped in as well. Stained in blood that was not her own, and utterly desperate, the girl had turned to the only one left for protection; her family's slave. The Wanderer knew this girl, knew her better than even perhaps she knew herself. Thirteen years her family had owned him, and ten years she had lived. He had watched her grow, learn, and play from afar, and he ached for his own family, lost to him across the sea. He could count on one hand the number of times Mei had paid heed to him, the indentured mechanic, owned and controlled by her father. That all changed when the Coastlanders had attacked.

Wide eyed and terrified, she had come to him, and clutched in her hands was the key to his freedom, the control box to the hated headband.

"Please," she had whispered, holding out the device to him, her hands shaking. "Help me."

With the click of a button, the fiendish device that had ruled his life for sixteen years clattered to the floor, and the Lone Wanderer knew freedom. For a moment, he could only stare at the girl before him, the progeny of his captor. The reverie was broken when a club wielding wildling burst through the door, with a savage roar that displayed his blackened and rotten teeth. The Wanderer let his fingers curl around a tire iron, and set to work. There were some things that one never forgot how to do.

The squat and thick raider's blows seemed infinitely slow to the now freed man as the familiar adrenaline rush of battle filled him. He dodged once, twice, thrice, dancing backwards as he dared the man to come at him. With a roar, the wild man charged, directly into an oil slick. He went down with a crash and a groan, which a quick strike from the tire iron promptly silenced. Stepping back to truly see what he had wrought, the Wanderer took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He had forgotten the exhilaration of combat, the tension of kill or be killed. He had missed it, in a strange way.

Bloody bludgeon in hand, the man turned back to Mei, who had ran to the corner of the room, eyes wide. For the briefest of moments, a heartbeat, a blink of an eye, he entertained the thought of leaving her. He was free, unfettered, liberated at last. Free to leave. Free to go home. Thoughts of home, of pain and loss and family, gave way to shame. He could not leave her. Not here, at least. Tucking the bloodied tire iron into his belt, the Wanderer walked over to her. He reached out a weathered, calloused hand, and she cringed away, teary eyes clamping shut.

"It's alright," he told her, in hushed tones. He sighed. "Hide here. You won't like what comes next."

For a moment, it seemed that she would say nothing. Then, quiet as a mouse, "How do I know you'll come back?"

Even in her terror, the girl was bright. The Wanderer nodded, and he fished into the rough spun shirt he wore, to produce a tarnished locket, hardly understanding his actions anymore than the girl did. It was the one thing his captors had permitted him to keep, looking for all intents and purposes like some meaningless trinket. And to anyone else perhaps, it was, but not to him. Gently, he handed Mei the necklace.

"Keep this safe," he had said to her, "I'll be back for it."

Before he had left the building, he led her to his quarters, a small room, barely more than a closet built into the garage, and furnished with little more than a sleeping mat. He had locked her in, and slid the key under the door, then with promise to return, he set to work.

The moon had risen high by the time he exited the garage, scraps of the dead raider's stinking leather armor conscripted for his own uses. The town was a charnel house, illuminated by the light of its own burning houses. The attackers had slipped in under cover of darkness, slitting the throats of night watchmen and then wreaking havoc. The dead sat piled high in the center of town, stripped naked and cut to bloody ribbons, a mountain of flesh that grew ever higher. Crouching low, the man who had once been the legend of the Capitol Wasteland sought out his first target; a mountain of a man, clad in nothing but a loincloth of leather that disturbingly resembled human skin. He stood with his back to the smaller man, blissfully unaware of his presence as he relieved himself on the walls of the town clinic. A swift blow to the back of the head ended that, and the Wanderer left with a new, if rusty, machete in tow. He had opted to leave behind the stone headed war hammer.

And so his night went, crouching and crawling around corners, clinging to shadows and the smoldering husks of homes as he dispatched raider after raider. A whack on the back of the head, a slit throat, a twist of cable wrapped around a victim's neck; house by house he went, snuffing out the lives of the beasts who pillaged and raped and knew no other life.

The night continued, and even drunk off the spoils of war and the barrels of old man Zhu's sake as they were, the wildlings began to grow wise, and fearful, when their compatriots did not return. Drunken roars of victory and conquest dimmed to hushed voices whispering nervously with each other in a tongue too mangled and primitive to be called Chinese. They crowded around the light of the fires they had started, their numbers halved since the night began, hoping to find safety in numbers. But the Wanderer had found Zhu's sake too, and the dropped guns of dead villagers.

A trio of Molotov cocktails rained down on the raiders, shattering open in a spray of broken glass and flaming alcohol, igniting the poor souls who had sought safety clustering around their fires. Their screams were silenced with bullets.

When the Wanderer of the wastes returned to the garage, twenty six men laid dead at his hand. He glanced at the body sitting in a pool blood and motor oil on the floor. Twenty seven. When he finally coaxed Mei into opening the door, the girl looked at him with her wide, forlorn eyes. Without a word from her unlikely savior, she knew that the raiders were dead.

"What happens now?" she asked, her quavering voice betraying a wisdom beyond her years.

The Wanderer paused, if only for a moment, to contemplate this. "First," he answered her, finally, "I find my things, and gather up supplies. Then, I am going home."

Mei looked up at him, her tear dried but her eyes still red. "My, my family?" she questioned.

The Wanderer's face fell. No man should ever have to tell a child of their family's death. He had seen their corpses, her mother raped and tossed aside like a broken toy, and her father, the village headman, with his head mounted on a metal spike. "I, I am truly sorry," he offered, pathetically.

Mei nodded, swallowing hard, trying to accept it. She bit her lip, struggling to keep up the brave face she had fought to forge, but to no avail. She seemed to shudder, and like a dam breaking new tears flooded through. She wept, and she sobbed, and the hot tears washed down her face, and for a moment, the Wanderer knew not what to do. Then he remembered.

He remembered the chaos that had nearly destroyed his home, when only the night before it seemed life had been perfect as he laid in bed, Amata in his arms. He remembered the heartbreak of returning home, only to be cast out once more by the one he thought had loved him. But most of all, he remembered his father, the look in his eyes as he died. He remembered, and he knew what to do. Shedding his bloodstained armor, he took the girl in a hug, and she sobbed into his shirt. Mei had cried herself to sleep that night, her head in his lap. He had stared down at her sleeping face, and ached to lay eyes on his own family once more.

They rose early that morning, and Mei followed him wordlessly as he made his rounds collecting supplies. He blindfolded her whenever they needed to pass the pile of the slain; she needed no more scarring. They gathered up food, weapons, spare clothing, and he had fashioned himself a fitting, if crude set of leather armor from scraps taken from the dead raiders. A pistol, a rifle, and ammunition he took from the villagers, as well as medical supplies from the clinic; the townsfolk had no need for them anymore. Then it was time to search Mei's house.

Her father had been the village headman, the one who had purchased him from the roving slave caravan for 'skilled labor', as advertised. The man who had refused, for years, to free him, even with his obedience, and his repairs done all around the village. The man who had one of his most prized possessions. It had been sold, along with his contract, and the Wanderer knew that the man had kept it.

He found his Pip-Boy in chest in the master bedroom. It was scratched and nicked from obvious attempts at hacking and using it, but otherwise fine. They were crude attempts by people who had long since forgotten the finesse needed to operate such technologies. Slipping it back onto his arm, he felt the device thrum back to life, and for a split second he was ten years old again, fighting with Butch over a sweet roll. It felt good to wear it again; they had been separated for far too long. They were about to leave, when another item caught his eyes; a sword, mounted above the bed, and he knew it was more than decorative.

While the coastal megacities of eastern China had flourished and modernized, the inland villages and town had lagged behind, left behind, mired in the past and clinging to the old ways. In the end, it had been their saving grace. An impoverished farming village made for a poor target for a nuclear strike. Life in towns like this had continued after the Great War much as they had before it.

The Wanderer knew this as he took the weapon and its scabbard down from the wall. The sword was likely centuries old, forged and re-forged every generation for some new warrior of the family to wield. It seemed poetic to him then, that he should use it to guard the family's last living member.

Fully equipped, the two travelling companions, thrown together by fate, had headed to their final stop; the stables.

Horses had remained largely unchanged by the apocalypse. They were larger, a bit meaner, and had the occasional taste for meat, but they had remained the reliable beasts of burden mankind had relied on for millennia. He saddled an older, calmer mare, and loaded their supplies , and Mei, onto the beast's back. He opened the other stalls before they left; a village of the dead had no need for mounts.

Hauling himself into the saddle, he rode double with Mei on the large animal's back. They left the burnt out ruins of the town behind them, tears silently streaming from the girl's eyes

ooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo

The exultant shouts of victorious slaves shook the Wanderer back to the present. He hugged the girl once more, gently taking the gun from her hands and leading her out from the pen the false rajah had confined their pleasure slaves to. The thought of what the blubbering scumbag had intended the girl's fate to be made his blood boil. Squeezing her hand in reassurance, the Wanderer entrusted Mei to a group of female slaves who made a beeline for the bathhouses, but he knew that memories did not wash away so easily.

Sighing, the man watched as they walked away, and pondering the future and the past. She had been ready for children, he remembered, fishing out the golden locket from his shirt. They had both been. Excitement, fear, and trepidation had swirled about their hearts, and just as they were getting ready to start their family, their future, his had ended, stolen away from him. He had been denied children of his own, yet it seemed he had found a daughter despite it. Someone who looked to him for protection, and guidance. Someone he cared for.

He touched the locket again, and pried open the miniscule clasp, gazing upon the picture inside. The thought of her, her face, her hair, her _voice_ all pulled at his heart as he gazed upon the image of his lost love, and he swore he would return to her. He would return to her, his love, his confidant. His Sarah.

**Phew. Finally done with this. Sorry it took so long folks, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. Please review, feedback helps make the story better. **


	7. Suffer No Slaver

**Disclaimer: Yes. Yes I secretly own the Fallout series and this is all just some scam to profit off of it. Clever you, figuring it out. (Note, angry lawyers, that was sarcasm. It come in handy sometimes.)**

**All poor jokes aside, I apologize for the delays in updating. To quote a great man, "$3%! happens" And meanwhile, while we're on that topic, coarse language and vulgarity ahead! Yay! Squeamish readers, you've been warned.**

Progress out of Megaton was slow, Jonas noted with distaste. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. The guards seemed eager to let them go, hard glares given to both Jericho and Jean-Claude. The elderly Sheriff Simms was less easily swayed. It was only after ten minutes of intense questioning broken by the timely arrival of his son and very pregnant daughter-in-law that the stalwart old man permitted them to leave, his parting gift the evil eye to Jericho. Mikken hung back to whisper a message to the two.

"Thanks, Harden," he said, with Simms the elder out of earshot, before turning to face his wife. "And best of luck with the baby, Maggie. I'll be sure to come back with something special for the little tyke."

The caravan man returned to his companions with a wry smile on his face as they exited the town. He clapped Jonas on the back. "Learn a lesson my boy," he said, a swagger in his step as he took a sip from a canteen. "You'll catch more bloatflies with honey than vinegar."

The young man looked at is companion with utter confusion. "Why the hell would I want to catch a bloatfly?"

Mikken shrugged. "Beats me," he said cheerily. "Some old pre-war saying. You get the picture though, kid. A little sweetness to the right folks will get you far in life."

Jonas balked a bit. "How's kissing everyone's ass supposed to help me?"

"You wound me," the old caravaner answered, in mock pain. "I ain't telling you to be a suck up. People do business with people, kid. You build relationships and connections with good folks, like the Simms, or you Vaulties even, and you get yourself some friends." Mikken shrugged. "It's a lot easier to pull a favor from a friend than an enemy."

From behind them came a snicker, and turning Jonas found it to be Jericho, the old raider sucking on a cigarette. "Well ain't that a pile of Brahmin shit," he said with a chuckle. "Mikken, you left out the part where everyone sits around singing campfire songs and caps start falling from the sky."

Mikken shrugged. "You got something to add," he answered drily, "o font of wisdom?"

Jericho took a draw from his cigarette and spat. "Everything's cheaper at gunpoint."

The conversation died, and the group began the trek through the desolate hills surrounding Megaton. A quick scan of his Pip-Boy told Jonas they were heading southeast, and as they crested the latest hill, the ruins od Washington DC stretched out before him, a great grey mass of crumbling shells clustered around the murky waters of the Potomac. He admired it silently, the tales of the Vault's history books running through his head. The capital of the Untied States. The seat of power of the free world. The-

A sudden angry squeal broke his reverie, and whirling towards the source of the noise, Jonas saw a hideous, fleshy, hairless mass rushing towards him, yellowed teeth bared. _Mole rat_, he thought, as memories of the Vault's wasteland classes bubbled to the surface. Frantically, he reached to grab Old Glory, fingers fumbling and cold sweat on his brow. _Too slow,_ he panicked. _It's gonna get me!_

A flurry of motion came from out the corner of his eye, and a half a second later the rat-a-tat of automatic weaponry reached is ears. Tiny geysers of blood erupted from the creature's mottled hide, and with a shudder it died, squealing.

Heart racing, Jonas turned to face his savior, only to find Jericho sheathing his weapon, a look of contempt on his face.

"Be quick or be dead, kid," he sneered, shouldering past the youth with a knife in hand, headed towards the animal's corpse.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Jonas asked, still shaken from the experience.

"A man's gotta eat," came the brusque reply, as the former raider began butchering the animal. Several minutes later, and with the addition of several plastic swaddled steaks, the men resumed their journey.

They walked in silence, trekking over barren hillsides and past ruined buildings, the glimmering dirty waters of the Potomac growing ever closer. A supermarket parking lot was a graveyard for the rusted out carcasses of cars. Blackened buildings with crumbling facades and faded shop fronts were still-lifes, moments frozen of a time and place long lost. It was late in the afternoon when they reached the waterfront. The dead hulls of speedboats and yachts sat mired in the muck not a stone's throw from rotting docks. Still they marched onwards, Mikken leading the way.

Night fell over the wasteland as the weary travellers reached the bridge. They broken back of a steel skeleton, it stretched across the waters proud, bitter, and strong, in the shadow of its own breaks and of the Citadel.

The Citadel. Jonas squinted to see over the last vestiges of the setting sun, the silhouette of the Brotherhood of Steel's legendary fortress stark against the horizon. Turrets and sniper nests studded the roof like the points of a crown, hulking figures in glinting power armor patrolling them, so close yet so distant.

"Don't get your hopes up, kid," Jericho scowled. "Those tin cans don't like dealing with us mere mortals." He took a draw of a cigarette and flicked it into a puddle, where it fizzed and sizzled into oblivion.

"Can it you crusty old man," Mikken answered. "They do goo d work, and you know it. You're just bitter they started putting a little law and order in place. "

Jericho glowered at him in silence, and Mikken called the party to a halt.

"We can camp here for the night," he called to them, jerking his thumb towards a crumbling overhang, where the bridge had once linked in to the main highway. Jonas could see the outline of a sheltered space beneath it. "Its nice and stable, and easy to defend."

Jericho scowled. "I don't like it," he said. "Too close to those Brotherhood pricks."

"You said it yourself, dickhead. Those guys don't bother with the likes of us. What's there to be afraid of?"

The raider had no answer, and the camp was accepted. Whoever the previous occupants of the overhang were, they had been fairly well equipped. A few ruined mattresses remained, along with enough rotten scrap and brittle wood to get a foul smelling fire going. Jericho roasted the mole rat meat over the oily flames, and there was enough for each man to have a fat steak of the oversized rodent.

Jonas nearly choked on it, while Mikken nodded in appreciation.

"Not a bad cut," he told the chef. "Bit stringier that usual, but not bad."

The raider shrugged. "Mirelurks hardly come this far up the river anymore. Woulda been better if little Johnny-shits-his-pants over there," he jerked a thumb at Jonas, "had looked appetizing to one of them instead. Still, better than roach meat."

"Amen to that," the caravaner answered.

Jonas said nothing, and let the insult pass. Soon enough it was time to sleep. Mikken drew the short straw, and took the first watch. As the young man settled down onto his stinking mattress, the pungent aromas of the wasteland and the river wafting up to meet him, he could only wonder if he had made the right choice. If coming one this expedition had been the right choice. And above all, what had he gotten himself into?

ooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooooo ooooooooooooo

The Lone Wanderer sighed as he sat his weary body down a crumbled piece of masonry, watching the bustle as freed slaves went about dismantling the operations of their former masters, their bodies bent and pained in their work, but their eyes beaming and proud. It had been a nightmare getting things organized. Though the majority of the slaves had scattered to the winds, a significant number had remained. The new freedmen, simple tribals many of them, had wanted him as their leader. He had not. Circumstance had forced his hand, however. With the Rajah gone, a power vacuum had been left, and a few cruel small-minded men had already tried to set things up as they had been before. The gallows that stood outside the Taj Mahal were a testament to their failures.

The would-be tyrants had convinced him of a need for a more stable government, and until one could be formed, he was it. That didn't mean he had to like it, though.

"Gweilo," came the call from his assistant who jogged up the hill, a bright eyed, energetic youth named Raj. He had cringed at the name at first, but now paid it no heed. The former slaves had heard Mei call him by it, and now there was nothing to be done to stop them. Inwardly, he laughed. It had been Mei's father's name for him, an antiquated Chinese term he learned meant 'white devil'. He doubted Mei even understood what it meant. The Indians called him it with reverence though, and for now, it would serve.

"Yes, Raj?" he answered in clumsy Hindi. He was progressing with the language, though it was still difficult for him. "What is it now?"

The youth seemed to fumble for his words. "A, a caravan, sir. You asked to be told if any more traders arrived. A group showed up at the gates, and the guards rounded them up in the square."

The Wanderer frowned, and stroked his chin, suddenly reminded by the blonde scruff that he needed to shave. Though word had spread of the Rajah's demise, Agra, he had come to understand, had been India's slave trade capital for centuries, and old habits died hard. Traders who had not heard of the change in management, or ones who did not care, still trickled in. Honest merchants were allowed to do their business and depart. Slavers were not so lucky.

"What kind of merchants are we talking about, Raj?" the man called Gweilo asked. The young man's face was grim, but the barest hint of vindication crept into his visage.

"The kind we keep rope for."

The answer was straight forward, and the Wanderer rose to follow his young aide. The trial would be on the steps of the Taj Mahal, as always. The several dozen slaves who had stayed were assembled on the steps, looking down at those who were to be judged. Seven ragged men, stripped of their weapons, sat kneeling in the center of the square, guarded by a group of armed slaves.

The Wanderer sighed. _It would have all been so much easier if all of them had left,_ he thought to himself, looking out over the assembled freedmen. These were the locals, the people of Agra who had been born and raised slaves, lorded over by the false kings who sat in the Taj Mahal. This land, and that life were all they knew, so when the chance came to leave, far too many had stayed. And so here he was, teaching a people how to live. Teaching them to find their voice once more.

The chatter and rumble of voices that filled the courtyard of the white palace died was he entered.

"Gweilo," came the muttered, reverent greetings, and stocky older man with shots of grey in his beard detached himself from the group guarding the prisoners and passing his weapon to the youth who took his place.

The man stopped before the Wanderer, and bowed his head. The white man returned the gesture.

"Talan," the Gweilo asked, addressing the man before him. "Tell me what has happened here." The Lone Wanderer observed the greying man as he answered. Men and women of the caliber needed for leadership were few and far between in this place, he had found, but Talan, the stoic middle aged man who been one of the elders of the slaves when he freed them, showed promise. He had made the man the captain of the militia he was training, so that the freedmen might be able to defend themselves.

"These dogs came here looking to sell us children," Talan spat, a quivering rage leaking into his voice.

The Wanderer's nostrils flared slightly; he would suffer no slaver, least of all the slaver of children. Ten years in bondage had instilled that steel resolve in him. "Where are the children now?" he asked, and Talan pointed over to a corner where a number of the freedmen were tending to a quintet of children, the oldest Mei's age and the youngest no more than five. The Gweilo felt his blood boil, but the image of peace and calm, he walked over to the young captives. He squatted down next to the oldest, a pitifully thin Indian boy, his face gaunt and hollow, his wrists chafed raw from the chains they had held him in. Haunted eyes looked out at the Gweilo

"What is your name?" the Wanderer asked softly.

The boy only stared at him, as if in disbelief. The Wanderer gave him time. Even before the Great War, a white man in rural India was a rare sight indeed. Now it was unheard of.

"A-Anuj," the boy stuttered.

"Anuj, is there anyone among those men who is innocent? Anyone who showed you mercy?"

The boy was silent for a long time, but then raised one bony finger and pointed it towards the youngest of the slavers, a teenager who would have barely begun shaving.

"He, he was kind." Anuj said. "H wanted them to let us go, but the others would not listen."

The Wanderer nodded, and thanked him before walking over to where the slavers sat, kneeling, their hands on their heads. He pointed to the youth that Anuj had singled out.

"You," he barked, and the young man seemed to jump. "On your feet, now." The slaver scrambled to obey, and the Wanderer stopped before him.

"Whatever shred of a conscience that you have left has saved you. Go. Leave this place, and remember this lesson."

His words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment it seemed the youth did not know what to do. His eyes flicked between the furious, indignant glares of his fellows, and the steely gaze of the guards. Tears swept through his eyes as he blubbered his thanks and ran off.

"Coward!"

The words were spat by the man the Wanderer took to be the slavers' leader. He was thick set, and powerfully built, with a necklace of knuckle bones around his beefy neck. The Wanderer turned to face him, and the slaver scowled.

"You don't scare me, ghost man," the big man spat. "I 'm not afraid of the likes of you."

The Gweilo raised a brow at him. "You should be." Quick as a flash, Mei's family blade was in his hand, and in the blink of an eye, the slaver's necklace clattered to the floor, and a thin line of blood trickled from his throat. The man gulped.

The Wanderer stepped back, wiping the blood from the tip of his sword, and tapping his foot against the stone floor.

"Hang them," he called out to Talan. "Show the world how we deal with slavers."

Screams of mercy from the condemned men fell upon deaf ears. One tried to run, only to receive the butt of a rifle to the back, instead of a bullet. Ammo was expensive. Rope was cheap.

The crowd began to disperse, and the Gweilo returned to his chambers. Suffer no slaver to live.

oooooooooooooo oooooooooooooo oooooooooooooo ooooooooooooo

When it was his turn to take the watch, Jonas tried not to look too disappointed. With five of them here, the shifts weren't too unbearable. Still, it was time he wasn't getting to sleep. Nights in the wastes were cold, and the winds frigid winds bit through even the toughest of clothing. The walls of the bridge overhang helped to block out most of the chills, but time and again, some intrepid breeze would worm its way through to the occupants and swirl about in victory. His covers were a threadbare blanket left by the camp's previous occupant, and the young man wrapped the moth and flea bitten bit of cloth around himself like a cloak as he huddled near the fire, feeding it chunks of moldering, rotten wood and trash to keep it going. The smoke was foul, but the heat divine.

The young man found himself gloweringly envious of Jean-Claude's thick coat of furs, and turned to look at the foul smelling man, only to find and empty bedroll. His breath caught in his throat. _I didn't even hear him leave,_ Jonas thought in horror. _What else could I have missed?_

His heart began to race. _He, he probably just went to take a piss or something. Yah, that's it._ A flick of movement out the corner of his eye caught his attention, and the young man whirled about to see Jean-Claude's massive frame step into the doorway, a wolfish grin on his bearded face.

"Did I frighten you, little boy?" he asked with a cruel chuckle that sounded like boulders grating against each other.

"N-no, just, surprised me a little," Jonas offered lamely. He swore he could see something, or someone, moving in the shadows behind the bigger man, but in a heartbeat it was gone, and he dismissed it as nothing, returning his attentions to the now scowling foreigner.

"You do not seem to be a very good watchman, mon ami," Jean-Claude growled. "Perhaps you should focus more upon the night, and less on men going to answer the call of nature. Comprendre?"

Mute, Jonas nodded, and swallowed hard. The mountain of a man's wolfish smile returned.

"Good," he said, settling back down to sleep, a malevolent glint in his eye. "Watch well, boy."

Jonas felt a shudder go down his spine. Pulling out Old Glory, he laid it across his lap and loaded in a cartridge. The night was cold, and full of horrors. He refused to face them unarmed.

**End Chapter. Please review, even if you hate it. Every bit of feedback helps me improve this for you, folks**


	8. Breach of Contract

**Disclaimer: Hello readers. Look at your game. Now back at me. Now back at your game. Now back at me. Sadly…I am not your game, nor its makers, meaning I do not own the Fallout franchise. No, this is merely a humble piece of fan fiction. I'm on a horse.**

**If you just read that with the Old Spice Guy's voice in your head, then congratulations. If not, well, I'll try not to feel like a complete and utter fool, and then command you to go watch it on YouTube. Educate yourself, people. **

**Also, a quick note folks; even though I have two different lines of narration running right now, Jonas's and the LW's, that doesn't necessarily mean they are completely concurrent. A piece of narration for either one could cover the span of an hour, a day, heck even a month, and it doesn't strictly have to occur at the same time as its counterpart. Additionally, there's some colorful language and violence ahead, so you've been warned. Now back to the action.**

Jonas awoke with a groggy groan, only to find the other members of his party already up and bustling about, busily breaking down camp. Mikken shot him a glance that said "move your ass", and the teenager scrambled to oblige. Glancing out one of the tall arches that led out of their shelter, the young man saw the sun's glow begin to creep over the horizon of shattered buildings and ghostly mist rising off the Potomoac; dawn.

A few minutes later, the five men were ready to depart. Mikken turned to address his companions.

"Alright gentlemen," he began. "After we cross the lovely river over there we'll take a little detour through the metro, and cut under the city. Nice and easy, and there'll probably be a few ghouls down there for target practice. Any questions?"

Jericho gave a snicker and shook his head. "Wake up and smell the rads, gramps," he said with a smirk. "Things have changed since you went on your little underground holiday. With the muties fading away, its safer up here than down there, now."

The stone faced foreigner nodded in acquiescence. "Oui," Jean-Claude growled. "Ze riverbank would be ze best path. I know this well."

Mikken sighed, rubbing his temples, then bit his lip as he shrugged in defeat.

"Alright. You've got a point. I haven't made this run in a few years. Lot of things can change." The caravaner took a moment to hock a gob of spit towards the ground before looking back up to face them.

"Let's go"

They crossed the bridge in silence, the shadow of the Citadel looming over them. They were halfway across the bridge when Mikken raised his hand and called a halt. Curious, Jonas leaned out to get a better view, and swallowed hard at what he saw. A dozen tannish brown disks laid scattered across their path; frag mines.

With a tired sigh, the caravan man pushed everyone back, then quick as a flash, whipped out his pistol and let loose a couple of rounds towards the explosive obstacles. With a deafening boom, a dozen point of hellfire burst into existence one after another like domino chain, blinking into life and dying a split second later, a hail of shrapnel their parting gift.

Jonas jumped as a large piece of singed metal clattered down to his feet, and Jericho laughed as harsh as a crow. Mikken just scowled.

"Come on you lot," he called. "We're burning daylight here."

The march resumed, and so did the silence. At the end of the bridge, they bore right, following the flow of the murky Potomac, and keeping to its shore as they skirted around the husks of buildings and homes, the slosh and gurgle of the water their constant companion. Eventually, the ragged trash littered shore gave way to a raised concrete sidewalk, a solid redoubt against the waters, and the men were grateful for the steady footing. They marched onwards.

A scavenger eyed them warily as he stood by his trash fire beneath the shade of a crumbling building, assault rifle at the ready. Mikken gave him a curt nod and continued onwards, while Jonas watched as Jericho and Jean-Claude eyed the man hungrily. He felt the ragged man's eyes on them the whole way around the corner. They walked on.

Cawing and screeching, a fat crow took wing as the men stumbled upon its feast. Two stinking corpses laid sprawled upon the pavement, the rotting carcass of a brahmin not far off to the side. Its saddle bags had been picked clean, and the bodies were missing bits of clothing and shoes. With slow, deliberate steps, Mikken circled around the cluster of dead, and the other men spread out likewise. Unsure of what to do, Jonas mimicked them.

Officer Hannon had his gun at the ready, so Jonas pulled out Old Glory and kept the worn rifle in hand. Mikken kept one eye on their surroundings, even as he checked over each body, and likewise the youth turned his attentions to the ruins around them. Jericho was pissing into the river, so Jonas ignored him completely. He turned to Jean-Claude, only to find the larger man sidling off downstream, to where the path they were following narrowed. He blocked the way forward with his bulk, and, with a satisfied sigh as he redid his pants, Jericho turned and moved to join him as well, a dark smirk upon his lips. Jean-Claude gave a wolfish grin.

Swallowing hard at this turn of events, the youth turned to find Mikken and Officer Hammond, only to find the men already facing the hired help, weapons drawn. Mikken scowled.

"I knew I smelled a rat," he scowled training his shotgun towards their turncoat guides. Jean-Claude had his hammer, and Jericho his beaten Chinese assault rifle. Jonas trained Old Glory on the swarthy foreigner's barrel-like chest, his hands shaking, the barrel of his rifle wobbling in turn. Officer Hammond had his assault rifle ready, his face a snarl.

"Its three on two," he barked, "and fur ball over there doesn't count for much. Give up!"

Jericho smirked. "Oh don't worry," he answered. "We brought friends."

Heart dropping to the put of his stomach, Jonas whirled around to look behind them, only to find half a dozen raiders already there, and the cold steel of a 10mm pistol pressed to his forehead. Its owner had a scruffy beard, a hooked nose, cruel beady eyes, and an ugly mohawk. He gave a smile, lips peeling back over yellowed teeth.

"Hey there, buddy," the dirt streaked man said with an evil smile. Jonas panicked. His finger flew for the trigger, only for the raider to knock Old Glory's barrel skyward. The shot flew wild, sinking into the concrete of the ruins that shaded them, and when Jonas returned his eyes to the ground, he found the butt of a rifle thundering towards him.

Like a ragdoll, he crumpled, Old Glory clattering from his hands as time seemed to slow to a crawl and the sounds of world dulled and muted. He felt himself let out a haggard groan as the taste of blood filled his mouth, but all it earned him as a savage kick to the stomach, and he doubled over. Head spinning, he watched helplessly as the raiders trained their weapons on the remaining men of Vault 101, and slowly, grudgingly, with looks of pure hatred upon their faces, Mikken and Hammond submitted. Hands on their heads and weapons on the ground, the men went to their knees. Vaguely, he could hear Hammond's cursing as the ragtag group of raiders, each clad in a patchwork of leather and trash, brought out rings of cold, dull metal that all Wastelanders knew to fear; slave collars. As the man with the collars closed in on Hammond, the beefy security officer began to thrash as they fit the collar around his neck.

Head lolling heavily upon his neck, Jonas turned and saw the traitors, Jericho and Jean-Claude. Jericho had lit a cigarette and wore the same smirk he always did, the one that made Jonas want to bash his teeth in. The smirk began to die though as two of the raiders started to approach him, as Jean-Claude whispered something in his ear and signaled them to come forward. In a heartbeat, he had his weapon trained on the hairy, larger man, mindless of the two raiders approaching from behind. Sounds began to crystallize, and Jonas could hear his ragged, smoking ravaged voice.

"You two-timing son of a-"

A shot pierced the air, and a second later the skull of one of the raiders heading towards Jericho exploded into a mass of gore. All hell broke lose

With a roar, Jericho moved to fire his gun, only for a wide swing of Jean-Claude's hammer to knock it from his hands, but quick as a flash a combat knife flew to the older man's hand and began to dance around his lumbering foe, jabbing and stabbing whatever flesh he could reach. Jonas rolled once more.

With their captors distracted, and looking for the shooter, Mikken and Hammond dove for their weapons. The caravaner scooped up his shotgun and let loose a volley of buckshot that ripped through the belly of one of the raiders, calling their attention back to their escaped prisoners. Hammond was not so fortunate. Panicked, the raider who managed the collars whipped out a smell metal switch and flicked a button on its panel. There came two high pitched metal beeps, and on the third a mighty boom, and Officer Hammond was no more. A headless corpse fell to the ground with a spray of blood surrounding it. Cursing, Mikken dove for cover behind a pile of rubble as the three raiders left on his side opened fire. In a spray of gore and shattered bone, a second shot from the mysterious sniper caught the slave collar raider at the elbow, and his forearm fell away as the joint exploded.

_Move! _Jonas screamed silently at himself, pain searing through his head as dumb, numb limbs fumbled to follow his commands. _Move or die! _His ears rang and his vision blurred as the young man forced himself to his knees, and surveyed the chaotic madness that surrounded him, yet left him untouched; the eye of the storm.

Mikken was firing blindly at the two raiders who remained on his side, leaning the barrel of the shotgun out over the rubble and raining down buckshot on the grimy men who had scrambled for cover amongst the ruins. The rat-a-tat of automatic weaponry and steady percussion of rifle fire split the air as the bullets rained down on Mikken's hiding place. To the right, Jericho and Jean-Claude were still locked in their dance, the spry older man darting away from heavy sledgehammer swings, only to wheel in with a quick jab from his combat knife. That left only the final raider, who Jonas watched dash by the corpse of his fallen fellow towards the ruins directly in front of him, disappearing from sight. _Maybe he ran away_, Jonas thought hopefully as he groped for his gun, fingers curling around the cracked, time worn stock of his hunting rifle.

Such hopes were smashed when the man reappeared moments later, a missile launcher on his shoulder. _Son of a-_

His thought was broken as the explosive flew past him, a trail of smoke in its wake. The shot went wide, slamming into the waters of the Potomac with a roar and plume of murky water. The shooter swore, and Jonas knew the man would not miss a second time. Already, the raider was fumbling to reload it; the youth did not have much time.

Arms shaking and head pounding as he struggled to sit up, Jonas scooped up his gun and pressed it to his shoulder, laying the barrel of the weapon on the only support he had; the dead brahmin. Peering down the barrel with one eye clamped shut, he watched as the pin at the end of the sights rocked wildly. He knew he had only one shot; no second chances.

Cursing loudly, the raider slammed the new missile into the launcher before shouldering the weapon once more, his hand moving for the trigger. Jonas swallowed hard, and held his breath. The sights ceased their wobbles, and with a slow, deliberate squeeze Jonas pulled the trigger, the recoil slamming the butt of the stock into an already sore shoulder. The young man barely noticed it though; he was transfixed at what he had wrought.

The bullet caught the man in the shoulder, his arm going limp as he screamed, transferring all the weight of the weapon to his second arm, and his trigger finger. The missile launcher swung down like a pendulum until it pointed straight to the ground, and then the weight fell on the hand on the trigger. The man had no time to screams the explosive rocketed the few scant inches to the ground before erupting into a fireball. When the flames died, all that was left was a charred and legless dead man, his weapon all but destroyed.

A whirlwind of emotions swept upon the young man; guilt, horror, exhilaration, but he knew that there would be a time and place for them. Now was not it. Trembling, he worked the bolt action and found his next target. The sniper's second victim was on the ground, clutching at his stump as it gushed in a fount of blood. With his one remaining hand, the man reached for a pistol at his belt, only for a rifle bullet to catch him in the neck. Choking on his own blood and clawing at his throat with his one good hand, the man collapsed. Pale as milk, Jonas turned to find another raider.

The two that had Mikken pinned down with their fire were shielded by the husk of the building they had taken cover in. He had no clear shot. Cursing under his breath, Jonas moved to lean out for a shot, only for a spray of automatic rounds to skitter off the concrete scant inches from his feet. On pure instinct, he dived for the nearest cover and huddled up towards the dead brahmin. Pressed up against the beast's rotting belly, he could feel the corpse shudder as bullets slammed into it, lodging themselves in the think wall of flesh.

Sheltered by the dead, Jonas peered out between the splayed legs of the rotting brahmin to the left, where with a triumphant roar, Jean-Claude knocked the knife from Jericho's hands. Oblivious to the innumerous cuts and gashes that wept crimson tears along his arms and chest, the larger man wheeled around and took hold of Jericho by the chest piece of his armor and slammed him into a wall. Reeling, the old raider was powerless as the bulky foreigner took him by the throat with one hand and raised him from the ground until his legs kicked uselessly and the toes of his boots scraped the dust. Gasping and sputtering, the old raider struggled to brace himself against Jean-Claude's thick arm, desperate for anything to take the crushing pressure from his tortured windpipe. As the bullets still rained down on him, Jonas could only watch as Jean-Claude leaned his head back in an exultant laugh, and Jericho's hand fumbled for his belt, drawing forth a small oval. Jonas's eyes went wide.

As Jericho's face went purple, his arm flew up to his would-be killer's laughing mouth and rammed the grenade in tight. The foreigner's eyes went wide as saucers as his impending doom dawned on him, and Jericho pulled his legs in tight before rocketing off the bigger man's chest with a mighty kick. Clawing at his face and the grenade jammed tight into his gullet, Jean-Claude staggered backwards as Jericho broke free from his gasp. His heavy booted feet fell upon a crumbling patch of pavement slick with the waters of the Potomac, and one false step was all that was needed to send the mountain of a man tumbling headlong into he river. The waters took him with an almighty splash, and a second later there came a muffled thump, then a cloud of red bubbles. Jericho laid sprawled on the ground where he had fallen, clutching at his throat as he coughed and sputtered. Shuddering, Jonas turned is attentions back to the raiders. The bullets had stopped flying, and he didn't know why. Seconds later, the answer came.

As the young man peeked out from his cover with Old Glory at the ready, he was greeted with the sight of one of the men sprinting from the ruins and glancing back, only for a flurry of glaring red beams to catch him. Shielding his eyes from the light, Jonas looked back and found a pile of ash and half burnt armor in the man's place. The second man met a kinder fate. He had begun his retreat, firing behind him as we went, only for a bullet to catch him in the forehead. Limp and lifeless, he dropped to the ground.

Jonas was speechless, but the sight of Jericho groping for his weapon reignited the panic within him. His rifle in hand, Jonas leapt to his feet, only to topple back to the ground as a wave of dizziness and nausea took hold of him. _That hit to the head_, he thought in his last moments of clarity. _Must've taken it harder than I thought…_

His head cracked against the hard ground. The world was spinning and the ringing in his ears had returned as Jonas laid upon the concrete. In the fringe of his vision, as the world faded to black, Jonas watched as a quintet of hulking gray monsters arrived on the scene. _Not monsters,_ he realized through blurry thoughts, _men_. Men in power armor. Men with energy weapons, and a man with a sniper rifle; their mysterious savior. The young man's last thought was of the Citadel, and then the world faded to nothingness.

**End Chapter. Thanks for the patience, folks. Hope you all enjoyed it. Please Review**


	9. Aftermath

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Just a FanFic. Don't sue me. Please.**

**I'm baaaaaaack! Been a while, I know, but updates should be showing up more often now. A quick note before we return to the action; just because there are two story lines that doesn't mean they are completely concurrent. One can be progressing by days, while the other progresses by weeks or even months. **

**Ok, what else… oh yah. If you don't like profanity and/or violence, then get the %#$ outta here. Onwards to violence!**

Three months. It had taken him three months to get the tribes of Agra and the Taj Mahal into a semblance of order, but at long last the task was done. The Wanderer found any scruples he had about their lengthy layover in Agra dissolving from the pride he felt in these people. As much as it pained him though, it was time to leave. The Agrans had given them a grand send off, however. A feast in the Taj Mahal had marked their final night with the newly freed tribes, a place of honor laid out for him, the Gweilo. He still found it humorous to take that as a title of respect, knowing its true meaning. Still, their reverence was sincere, and their gratitude even more so. He and Mei had left the Taj Mahal the next morning with full bellies and full packs on the back of one of the tribe's elephants, or haathis as the natives called them. He decided to call him Dumbo.

A saddle the size of a small table was strapped on the beast's back; plenty of room for both he and Mei, as well as their supplies. Thinking back to the picture books in the Vault, the Wanderer could not help to think how little the creatures had changed. Their hides were a bit darker, perhaps, and their tusks curved a bit crueler, but it seemed it would take more than the nuclear apocalypse to drive them to extinction, at least in a nation where they had been so heavily domesticated. Regardless, he was glad to have the animal with them. Riding them was a skill he had been taught over the course of their stay, and Dumbo would certainly make travel easier.

At their departure from the gates of the Taj Mahal, women were weeping, and wreaths of flowers thrown. _Alright, _the Gweilo thought to himself. _This is getting a bit excessive._ They were calling him Tarak, liberator, as often as they did Gweilo, and their screams and calls followed them down the road, finally disappearing along with the sight of the palace's white dome. Sighing, the Wanderer returned his attentions to the road, wile Mei sat in the saddle's corner, somber and silent, as she always was. He frowned ever so slightly at this; their time in Agra had given her the opportunity to be amongst children her own age, to finally make new friends. It pained him to take that away from her. He would excuse her sullen mood.

They rode on down the road in silence, Dumbo's lumbering gait swaying the basket-like saddle back and forth, sluicing through the hot and humid air. The long strides of their new companion conveyed them swiftly down the road, and not far from the Taj Mahal, the Wanderer called him to a stop. At a crux in the dirt road, twisted shrubs already growing over them, a few crude crosses stood, clustered at the crossroads. Face dour, the Wanderer climbed down the side of their mount, before helping Mei down. He walked over to the graves and knelt. This was what had started their whole detour through Agra, the ambush of the caravan they were travelling with. The Gweilo looked away, ashamed; he had not been able to save them.

Half a dozen earthen mounds were splayed about, and he stopped at each, remembering them all. Chao was ever smiling with his crooked teeth and manic laugh. Lin could turn days old scraps into a world-class meal. He sighed; they had been their companions since China, travelling across the Taklimakan Desert and through the passes of the Himalayas. They'd been traders, daring ones at that, willing to make the treacherous trip to the fabled land of India and bring back riches to the communities of central China. One good trip, and a man would be set for life. They had dared the journey, only to fall with victory in sight, the victims of a madman.

He sighed. The caravan had taken a chance on them, a strange man and a little girl, when he had most needed them, but in their time of need, he had failed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, lips stumbling over the words, English unfamiliar after so many years. Finally, he rose and looked away; they had deserved so much more. After a long silence, Mei finally spoke.

"Gweilo," she asked, voice soft as always, "where are we going to go?"

The Wanderer was silent for a moment, mentally shifting gears back into Chinese; the more languages he learned, the more he was finding himself tongue tied. "We'll keep retracing the steps the slavers took when the brought me here," he answered, voice level, "like we had been doing before…. before all this." He faltered there.

Mei nodded impatiently, but was unsatisfied. "I know that, but where are we _going_? Where next?"

Cracking his neck, the Wanderer scratched his chin, absently noting he needed to shave.

"Mumbai."

ooooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooo

Groaning, Jonas returned to consciousness, in what he noted was becoming a very unsettling pattern. Then he noticed the guns. And the armor. And the people wearing them. _The Brotherhood of Steel_. The wasteland sun shone off the gray steel of their power armor suits, and the crackled around the muzzles of their energy weapons. Then he noticed the nausea. Vomit began to bubble up his throat, and he struggled to sit up, only for a wave of dizziness to firmly knock him back down. Puking a tiny bit in his mouth, he watched the afternoon sky above him swim and warp as his ears rang.

"Whoa, slow down there kid," came Mikken's voice, twisted and strained. "You've got a pretty bad concussion there. Hang on."

A sharp sudden pain erupted in his arm, but there was nothing he could do but grunt in displeasure. The pain disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced by what felt like fire flowing through his veins. A few moments later, the world stopped swimming, and his hearing sharpened once more.

"There we go, my boy,"Mikken said, voice returned to his usual drawl. "Stimpack fixed that right up. Still, careful standing back up here."

Nodding mutely, the pale-faced youth accepted the old caravaner's help in rising to his feet, and was shocked once more at what he saw. At least half a dozen armored Brotherhood members were bustling about, most engaged in what seemed to be a cleanup of the skirmish. The dead raiders had all been laid out side to side, their weapons in another line next to them. Officer Hannon had his own place. Even with spare cloths and shirts draped over the worst of the wounds on the bodies, Jonas still felt threatened that the contents of breakfast were about to return. A blood soaked rag did little to hide the fact that Officer Hannon, a man he'd known his entire life, no longer had a head. The assorted bloodstains weren't helping either.

Turning from the grisly scene, Jonas looked to the river, the last place he'd seen Jean-Claude. There was nothing left but a swirling red cloud in the slow moving brown waters. Weakly, he spat. _Good riddance_, he thought. Mikken nodded solemnly in approval.

"And that brings us to the final stop in out tour," Mikken gave in a mocking ramble. "Scumbag central."

Jericho sat slumped over on a piece of rubble, two Brotherhood members standing guard over him. The battered and bloodied old man still managed to look defiant, and he glared at the two Vault men. His face was stone, his eyes pure hatred.

"Ignore Chuckles the Clown over there, gentlemen," came a new voice, muffled and mashed. Leaning on Mikken, Jonas craned his neck towards the source of the voice, and found it in the fully armored Brotherhood member walking towards them. Slinging his plasma rifle over his back, the soldier reached up to their helmet and with a hiss of releasing pressure the piece separated from the body of the armor. Helmet gone and tucked under one arm, the soldier revealed himself as a well kept and kind eyed, if homely, young man who looked to be in his twenties.

"Mikken," he called out, with a broad smile. "Can't tell you how glad I am to see you in one piece!"

With a quick apology, Mikken leant Jonas up against a nearby wall and hurried over to the solider, his eyes twinkling and mouth in a grin. The two men took each other in a tight hug, the younger dwarfing his elder. When they finally parted, the old caravaner had to crack his back with a grimace. The soldier looked away sheepishly.

"Sorry," he said, quickly. "You can forget about the suit sometimes."

Mikken dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Don't sweat it, kid," he answered, finally knocking his spine back into shape with a blissful sigh. Looking back at the Brotherhood soldier, his smile returned. "Well look at you, Junior," he said proudly. "All grown up."

Junior's face went red. "Only person who still calls me that is Jenny," he said, trying to buck up. "Its Paladin Smith, now."

Mikken could only keep smiling. "Always knew you were meant for greatness, kid. How's your cousin doing?

"Good. Good. She chose to take up with the Scribes. She's…", he trailed off, scratching his head. "Who knows what project they have her working on now? But you can catch up with her yourself when we get to the Citadel."

Mikken cocked his head off slightly to the side, confusion playing across the well-worn lines of his face. "The Citadel?"

The soldier, Junior, nodded vehemently, cocking a slight smile. "You've got friends in high places now, old man. You're a guest of the Brotherhood." His grin began to fade, his tone more serious. "Besides," he continued, "Elder Lyons will want a report on this, and the story of how this all happened would be helpful. We need to drop off the trash, too," he finished, with a venomous glare cast towards Jericho, who promptly answered it with a one-finger salute.

Turning, Junior noticed Jonas, still leaning against the ruins, seemingly for the first time. His brows furrowed slightly before he spoke again. "A more comprehensive check up for that concussion would do you some good, too." He frowned slightly. "I, I'm sorry," he finally managed. "I don't mean to stare. You just look like someone I know. And someone I knew."

Sighing, Jonas shrugged. "Yeah," he answered, tiredly. "I've been getting that a lot lately."

Awkwardly, Junior nodded, before turning back to Mikken. "Well then," he said, with a sigh, somewhat flummoxed, "we'll pack up and be back to the Citadel soon. Just hang in there, kid," he finished, with a nod to Jonas, before heading off to his fellows. Moments later, the helmet was reaffixed, and orders flowed from his mouth, choppy and muffled.

For a moment, there was silence between the two men of the Vault.

"Do you know everyone topside, or just the well connected ones?" Jonas exclaimed finally, staring at Mikken in disbelief.

The old caravaner could only smile. "What did I tell you, kid?" he answered. "Making friends tends to pay off."

Jonas just shook his head, before rigidly turning away from the neatly lined bodies, his face going white once more.

Mikken looked on, concerned. "Want to talk about?" he asked gently, gesturing towards the covered bodies.

Jonas vehemently shook his head "no", before struggling to recompose himself and return to the conversation. "So how'd you make that particular friend? His name seriously Junior?"

An old sorrow began to creep back into the wizened man's face. "That, my boy," he began, "is a long and sad story, and one that should not be told if you're already felling queasy. Short version, I stumble on him and his cousin a bit after their grandpa had passed. Took 'em in for a while, before the Brotherhood started taking in stray kids to boost the ranks. Gave 'em a better home then I ever could." His sorrow began to fade, a the deep lines furrowing his face lessening some. "Still, damn good seeing him. Though I wish it had been under happier circumstances."

Silently, they turned to Hammond's body. Mikken laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "We'll see to it his body's returned to the Vault," he assured him, with a quiet strength. "Now come one, we've work to do."

With that, the old caravan man set about gathering up their scattered possessions, leaving Jonas at the wall, the youth's eyes still fixed on Hammond's headless corpse, his mouth bone dry and his hands shaking.

**End Chapter. Short, and perhaps a little boring, I know, but we did just have a hell of a fight last chapter, however long ago it was. I do apologize for the delay, but sadly fan fic gets outranked on the priority list by several other things. Oh, and I hope I wasn't too obvious in giving away Junior's identity and backstory. I know some of you Fallout fanatics out there will have guessed him in a heartbeat. Please review. I love your feedback, even if this occasionally glitchy site won't always let me respond to them. Well, until next time folks. I promise you, the plot shall be thickening….**


	10. Twists and Turns

**I'm back. For a while at least. Anyways, terribly sorry for putting things on hold story-wise, but here's a piping hot update for all you fans of the post-apocalypse. Enjoy.**

With a heavy sigh, the Lone Wanderer laid his hand on the leathery neck of the beast that had faithfully served them for the last few weeks. Dumbo had taken a battering in the last bandit ambush, toppled by a landmine and riddled with bullets. Shots that would have otherwise found him. Or Mei.

The elephant lay on its side, moaning plaintively, painfully. There was nothing he could do for it, except give it a quick death. With another final sigh, the man looked in the animal's eyes. "Thanks, Dumbo," he whispered, slowly pulling out his rifle. "Happy trails, buddy." A single shot rent the air, and the Lone Wanderer had a new stain to clean from his clothes. Shaking his head, the Gweilo took in the scene around him. It was a well-laid trap, he had to admit.

The five ragtag attackers laid in a bloody mess arrayed around Dumbo's fresh remains. They'd had the element of surprise, but it hadn't saved them; the white man wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad that his old instincts were coming back. With a slight limp, courtesy of their tumble from atop their late mount, he made his way over to the underbrush.

"You can come out now," he said aloud, in Chinese. "It's over."

Silently, Mei emerged from the bush she had concealed herself behind, her eyes trained on her protector. It was then that he noticed the bloody knife in her hand, and the sixth, dead, bandit lying in the ditch alongside the trail.

The Wanderer spared a glance for the dead man before returning his gaze to his ward. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The girl shook her head no, and swallowed hard. "No," she answered at last, her voice quavering. "I…I'm fine." The man saw the tiniest hint of a tear forming in the corner of her eye. With a sigh, he limped over to her and gently took her in a hug.

"It alright to feel remorse, Mei," he whispered to her, as she buried her face into his shoulder. "It isn't easy, and it never should be."

Pulling back from the man, the girl wiped her tears and looked up at him. "Then how is it so easy for you?"

The Gweilo could only sigh. "Far too much practice. Come on now, we're almost there."

After gathering together the supplies Dumbo's fall had scattered about, the two set off silently back down the trail until they crested the final hill. The girl's breath caught in her chest.

The city sprawled out in every direction, a vast plain of blasted grey and twisted greenery that yielded only to the ocean. Nature clashed with the ruins of skyscrapers and highways, as the earth sought to reclaim what was its own. Its skyline was fraught with the jagged remains of great towers, like a mouth full of broken teeth gouging at the sky. The city wrapped around its deep harbor, ancient dry-docks, shipping yards, and rusted out hulls still littering its shore. The view was incredible.

Mei turned to her protector, shaking her head. "I hope you know what you're looking for, Gweilo," she said solemnly.

The Wanderer shook his head heavily. The girl had become increasingly grim since Agra, and he doubted that their encounter with the bandits had helped that. Still, the spark of wonder he had seen in her eyes when she first beheld the city had not entirely faded, so he could content himself with that.

"We're heading to the harbor," he answered back. "With any luck, there'll be a ship captain or two there that I need to have a few choice words with."

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"You have no idea where we're going, do you?"

Sad as it was to say, the Wanderer had to concede that the girl was right. The ruins of Mumbai were a labyrinth. Even with his PipBoy, the twisting passageways through the remains of the city were a maze, with streets blocked of by rubble, and new a passageways opened up through the gutted corpses of buildings. All around, the crumbling gray ghosts of buildings closed in around them, yet interspersed with a shot of green where crawling vines or a tenacious palm tree had taken root. He had long since lost his way to the harbor. Even the rusted road signs were of no use, for while his spoken Hindi was passable, few of his teachers in Agra had been literate themselves. As he stared about in desperate hope for some kind of landmark to aid them though, one sign in particular caught his eyes. Beneath the faded Hindi script, in thick blocky letters, were the words _"United States Consulate"_. Those three simple words sent his brow shooting upwards.

"Well," he said, to no one in particular, "I think that warrants a little investigation."

Mei could only sigh and rub her temples; it was looking to be a long day.

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"Mikken," Jonas implored in his best approximation of a whisper, "why is everyone _looking_ at me?"

The old caravan man sighed. He couldn't deny it. It seemed like every older member of the Brotherhood they passed couldn't help but stare as Junior led them through the Citadel's halls. A detachment of the soldiers that had escorted them had broken off to take Jericho to the holding cells, and Officer Hammond's body to the morgue. Junior was making good on that promise, at least. They were currently being escorted to the clinic, a fact which considering the throbbing in his head, Jonas was not about to complain over.

When the older man's only answer was to look away, as if ashamed, the youth began to worry. The sounds of a hacksaw greeted them as they entered the clinic, and the young man grimaced.

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"Elder Lyons will see you now," Junior announced as he entered back into the hall where Mikken and Jonas sat waiting. With a nod, the caravaner rose to his feet, and motioned for his younger companion to follow. Passing through the doorway, they entered into yet another waiting room, where and aged black woman stood waiting, hands behind her back, in a full set of power armor sans helmet.

"This is Star Paladin Cross," Junior answered in response to Mikken's inquisitive stare. "She's going to check you for any weapons."

The caravaner sighed. "Well, so long as we get them back, let me save you the trouble." After removing the .32 pistol from his jacket, combat knives from each boot, and a straight razor from his pocket and laying them all on the table, the caravan man turned around and noted the stunned look on everyone else's face. "What?" he answered them. "A man can't travel prepared?"

When his subsequent search produced no other surprises, the Star Paladin moved on to Jonas, but faltered when she laid eyes on him.

"I, I do not mean to stare. My apologies. Here, let us be done with this quickly."

After a brisk and only minimally invasive search, the two were deemed safe, and sent into the office of the Elder.

Jonas had expected a number of things about the mysterious leader of the fabled Brotherhood of Steel. He'd expected a robed, white bearded man, spouting wisdom and proverbs with very breath. He'd expected personal chambers lined with relics of the old world, treasures mysterious and powerful. What he had not expected was a blonde woman of middle age and evidently foul temperament.

Elder Lyons sat leaned back in her chair, which was perhaps the only luxury in her utilitarian office space. Her desk was clean of clutter and mess, it's only ornament a large computer console sitting in its center. The walls were lined not with treasures, but with photographs, some ancient, but some seemingly new. As they entered, the Elder sat with her eyes shut, massaging her temples with one hand in frustration. At the sound of their entry, she did not look up, but merely pointed to the two chairs arranged in front of her desk.

Sitting down with little fanfare, Mikken took a deep breath before launching into his usual honey coated voice, though Jonas could detect the tiniest undercurrents of fear.

"Sarah, my dear, it is so good to see-"

"Can it, Mikken," the Elder retorted, with a growl, "and it's Elder Lyons to you."

With a heavy sigh, Sarah Lyons folded her hands across her lap and looked up at her guests, only for all the color to drain from her face in a heartbeat. She looked as if she'd seen a ghost.

"M-Mikken," she began again, faltering slightly before recomposing herself. "Who is this?"

Beads of sweat could were rapidly becoming visible on the older man's brow. "Well, uh, this is Jonas. Overseer Almodovar's son." He finished it with his trademark lopsided smile, but the Elder it seemed was not amused.

"Of course he is," she said, through clenched teeth. Turning to the younger of the two, Jonas found himself the target of the Elder's terrifying gaze. "Tell me Jonas," she asked quickly, "how old are you?" Her tone implied it was more than just curiosity.

"I'll be seventeen in three months, ma'am," he answered, stammering only slightly. He too began to feel himself sweat; something was not right here.

The Elder was silent for a moment, her eyes distant, as if in some kind of silent calculation. Finally, satisfied with the answer, she turned her sights back to them.

"Alright. Mikken, you and I will be having a word privately when this is done. Now, what's this I hear about issues with the vault door?"

As the caravan man launched into his explanation of the situation with far more skill than he ever could have, Jonas let his eyes and mind wander about the room, until one of the photographs on the wall caught his eye.

It was of the Elder, that much was for sure, but of one far younger. Two men stood with her, one old and one young. The older man fit his imaginings of the Elder perfectly; flowing beard and robes and sharp eyes. When his gaze fell onto the other, Jonas took a sharp breath inwards. The man was a dead ringer for him.

A broad smiling face looked out at him, the helmet to his power armor held under one arm. An untamed head of blonde hair went everywhere, windswept by the Wastes. He had the same eyes, the same nose, and the same jaw. It was uncanny.

Mind racing, Jonas looked about to other pictures, finding the man in more and more of them. He stood grinning with a plasma rifle slung over one shoulder, and a deathclaw mounted and stuffed like a trophy. There was one of him and the current Elder, his arms wrapped around her waist. There was one of him wearing a Vault 101 jumpsuit.

Jonas's mind was racing, Mikken and the Elder's conversation barely background noise humming in his ears. Who was this man? He had to know. Why did he look so much like him? Was this why everyone had been staring at him?

Quickly, he scanned the walls once more, looking for more photos of the man, but beyond a certain point he disappeared. Now the pictures were of the Elder and a child, a girl. A girl with wild blonde hair and a familiar face.

His thoughts and Mikken's story were suddenly interrupted by an argument from beyond the door. Without warning, the door burst open, and in strode the girl from the pictures, fully grown and clad in power armor. For a second, no one spoke, and Jonas and the strange girl locked eyes, both pairs the same shade of emerald green. After what felt an eternity, she broke the silence.

"What the fuck?"

**End Chapter. Weren't expecting that, were you? Ha. The plot's definitely thickening here, folks. Please keep letting me know what you think in the reviews. Also, not really sure if I had previously given Jonas a different age or eye color, but as of now they're "almost 17" and "green" respectively. Til next time, folks**


	11. Strange Bedmates

**Disclaimer: I own nada. All rights are Bethesda's. Also, speaking of Bethesda, check out the trailer for upcoming steampunk-esque assassin game, Dishonored. It hit the web a few days ago and looks pretty sweet. Anyways, back to a different apocalypse, and maybe even a few answers…**

**Additional Disclaimer: I have no idea what the American Consulate in Mumbai looks like, nor what it would look like in the Fallout universe.**

Even after two centuries of wear and decay, with collapsed wings and overgrown gardens, the American Consulate at Mumbai was still an impressive edifice. The Wanderer and his young charge stood before the main courtyard that led into the complex, the large decorative wrought iron gate long since rusted and toppled. The numerous security checkpoints along its driveway had likewise been overgrown. The man looked down at Mei with mixed feelings; while he was loathe to put her in harm's way, the prospect of a treasure trove of technology from his homeland was just too enticing to pass by.

He turned to the girl. "Don't leave my side," he commanded in Chinese. "I just want to look for anything that could help us, and then we can leave." Silently, she nodded in understanding, and her protector could only sigh; he desperately wished that she would not be so somber, so grim. Regardless, the Gweilo stepped through the gates and began to forge a path to the main door of the building, Mei a silent shadow behind him. The wings of the consulate surrounded them on three sides, massive walls of crumbling concrete and steel that loomed up ahead of them. In the courtyard, cracked and rusted fountains and desiccated gardens lined the pathway to the main door. Broad windows stretched up for several stories from there, culminating in a sloping, hole filled roof. Something caught his eye on his survey of the building, however. Something shiny, something familiar. A glint of light where none should have been.

Throwing himself towards the child and holding her tight as they plummeted, the Lone Wanderer dove behind an ancient fountain for cover as a rifle shot rent the air, and a bullet chipped the paving stones behind them.

"That was a warning shot," a voice called out from a loudspeaker in heavily accented Hindi. "The next one won't miss. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up!" The voice was loud, commanding, but raspy. Familiarly raspy.

The words hung in the air, but the Wanderer made no move, his mind racing.

"This is chance to come out peacefully and state your business. Otherwise, people will start losing heads, and a whole lot of blood. Come out with your hands up!"

The Wanderer spared a look at Mei, at the fear in her eyes that her face fought to suppress. He could not put her in any more danger. There was only one option. Praying that he had not tragically miscalculated, the man laid his gun upon the ground, well within Mei's reach, and slowly stood up from behind the fountain.

There came an immediate change in the voice the moment he entered into view. "Well hot damn!" the speakers called out, and the Wanderer's jaw dropped as the words that met his ears were not Hindi, or even Chinese, but sweet, sweet English. "A white boy in Mumbai! Oh Lord, please tell me you speak English!"

Hardly able to contain his enthusiasm, the Wanderer nodded, and answered loudly.

"Yes!" he called out, voice booming. "Yes, I do! I, we, are here peacefully. Just wanted to see if there was anything worth salvaging here."

A whooping, cheering cry went out over the speaker, crackling with static. "Oh, Lord. An English speaker _and_ a fellow bona fide American to boot? Its Christmas come early!" The voice spoke with lilting, rolling twang, its' owner's joy palpable. "Now you just hold tight for a second and I'll open the main door for y'all."

With that, the loudspeaker abruptly died, only for its noise to be replaced by another as the thick steel-braced doors at the end of the courtyard swung open of their own accord, the dark of the consulate looming beyond them.

"Well come on in," the voice invited, crackling back to life over the speaker. "From the looks of things you could use with a little Southern hospitality."

Slowly, the Wanderer scooped up his gun and then extended a hand to Mei, who took it gingerly.

"Gweilo," she asked softly, "what was that?"

"If we're lucky, someone who can help us."

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For a long moment, silence hung in the air of the Elder's office as its four occupants stared at each other, jaws agape. The girl in the power armor that had burst in broke it.

"Mom," she said through clenched teeth, "what is going on? And who the hell is this?" Her final question was punctuated with an accusatory finger pointed towards Jonas.

Throwing his hands up in exasperation, the young man turned to face his guide. "I've had it with the secrets, Mikken. Just explain to me what's happening."

The Elder sat at her desk, her icy gaze drilling holes into the boy's chest until the caravaner intervened.

"I think that's enough with the death glare, Elder. You did the math already. He hadn't even left the damn Vault at that point."

Jonas couldn't take it anymore. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, glaring at the man he had trusted. "Just level with me, Mikken."

"Well," the Elder said icily, "better you than I, Mikken."

With a long and heavy sigh, the caravaner shut his eyes and rubbed his temples. "Fine," he answered at last, voice biting. "You wondered about all the funny looks people have been giving you this whole trip? The double takes folks in the street do? Its because you're a dead ringer for your old man."

Jonas blinked and stuttered in incomprehension. "I, what?" he started, face a mask of confusion. "I never met my father. He was just some Vaultie like me. Died before I was born."

The older man just shook his head. "You know for a boy as bright as you are, you can be a real dumbass sometimes," he lamented. "Your daddy wasn't just some Vaultie, he was _the_ Vaultie. The Wanderer. And you look just like him."

"No fucking way." The girl in the power armor's words rent the stunned silence that hung in the air. "I'm related to this runt?" She jerked her thumb towards Jonas, and the young man bristled in indignation as he looked at her.

The family resemblance was striking, he had to admit, as his eyes quickly scanned her. They had the same blonde hair as the man in the pictures, the same eyes. And to his chagrin, he could see she seemed significantly taller than him, though he prayed that it was just the extra height from her armor.

"Please tell me this bitch and I don't share blood," he rebutted, aloud. The girl rolled her eyes.

"Bitch?" she answered him. "How original. Now would you like me to get the step stool for you now or later," she continued on, with a fake sugary smile. "Because I do hate having to bend down to talk to someone."

The boy's face twitched slightly in rage before his composure returned. "I'm sorry, I could quite hear that last bit," he snapped back at her, "your head's so far up your own ass I'm getting a bit of an echo in here!"

Eyes burning, the girl stepped forward. "Why you little-"

"Enough!"

Elder Lyons and Mikken spoke in tangent now, cold glares leveled on their respective charges.

"Catherine Lyons," the Elder began, her voice steel. "You will report to your quarters, and stay there until I say otherwise. Are we clear?"

"But mom-"

"But nothing. Room. Now. We will discuss this later."

For a moment the girl, Catherine, said nothing, fuming silently as she glared first at her mother, and then at her newfound half-brother. Finally, with a string of muttered curses, she stormed off, booted footfalls reverberating throughout the room.

"And you two," the woman concluded, swiveling her chair to face them, her face in a frown. "Guest quarters are being prepared. You are _strongly_ encouraged to wait there while I get this mess straightened out. Understand?"

Mikken nodded in silence, then took hold of Jonas with a strong grip on the arm and headed for the door, to the young man's protests. Mikken silenced them with a whisper.

"Fighting with the Elder's only child is _not_ a good way to endear yourself to our hosts, kid. Now let's go. Guess I owe you some answers."

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The halls of the American consulate were wide and airy, dirty beams of sunlight filtering in through cracked and boarded up windows, their wan light casting shadows across the tiled floors. Artwork sat in recessed niches, next to ornate planters and carved benches. The government had spared no expenses, it seemed. One particular piece of art caught the Wanderer's eye. It was a form he had seen numerous times throughout his travels in India; a four-armed man in ornate dress at dance, balanced upon one bent leg, a ring of fire surrounding him.

"That's Shiva," the voice from the courtyard said, drifting out from the gloom free of the static that had marred it over the loudspeaker. "The Hindu god of destruction. It's a classical depiction of him performing the cosmic dance, destroying the world to make way for a new one."

The raspy voice's owner at last revealed itself, stepping into one of the dirty beams of sunlight.

"Though it's been about two centuries, and I'm still waiting for that part of the cycle to kick in."

The ghoul was dressed as a soldier, a pitted and chipped combat helmet atop his head, a faded playing card stuck in its rim. Faded combat fatigues clung to his frame from neck to toe, leaving only his hands, neck and face exposed. Cracked decaying hands slung a dirty sniper rifle over his shoulder and across his back, before snapping into position for a crisp salute.

"Captain Jeremiah Beauregard, at your service," the ghoul said, his voice rasping and twanging, accent competing with decay. "And it's a damn fine thing to find a fellow son of the U.S. of A after so long, boy! Put her there!"

With gusto, the centuries old soldier stuck forth his hand, and the Lone Wanderer reached out to meet it, though not without some trepidation. Mei stopped him short of that, though.

"Gweilo," she said softly, tugging insistently on his sleeve. "What is that?" He could hear the fear creeping into the girl's voice, despite her best efforts. He sighed and moved to answer.

"Gaylord?" the ghoul exclaimed, stopping him. "What the hell kind of name is Gaylord? This little coolie with you, boy? Now don't get me wrong, I can understand a man's needs, but there's a line that-"

"Her name's Mei," the Wanderer interjected, cutting off the ghoul's tirade. "I was working with her family when they were killed by raiders." The man decided to omit the exact nature of his employment. "I've been taking care of her ever since." He leveled a cold glare at the old soldier. "I am not abusing her. And if anyone else tries to, they'll get a bullet in their head."

Quickly, he turned to the terrified girl, and did his best to speak soothingly. "I know he looks frightening, Mei," the man said softly in Chinese, "but he's a person just like you or me." The man played out all the possible ways this encounter could proceed before giving the addendum "and keep that gun I gave you ready."

Standing back up, he faced the ghoulish soldier, who was eyeing him strangely. Finally, the newcomer shrugged.

"Well," he said, "I'm glad you aren't some sick-fuck kiddy diddler. Would've been a shame to see my first fellow American in damn near 200 years, only to have to shoot ya' on moral grounds." The menace in his voice abruptly evaporated. "Now, what'd you say your name was?"

The Wanderer met the ghoul's gaze, and spoke calmly. "I didn't."

The soldier frowned. "Well, that's just rude, son. And unless you want me calling you Gaylord this whole time I suggest you throw me a bone here."

The Wanderer couldn't help but crack a small smile at this. "Well, in that case, I guess Alex will do for now, Captain."

Beauregard grinned. "Well, now we're making some progress," he drawled. "Now, you care telling me what brings a white boy like you so far from home, and to my doorstep no less?

The Wanderer scratched his head for a moment, pausing to give an encouraging word to Mei in Chinese before answering, "We came to the city looking for sea passage, and I figured the consulate might have some good tech to be had."

"Well," the ghoul began, "I got good news and I got bad news for you, Gaylord. Good news is that this place does indeed have some fine pieces of equipment, which I might be willing to part with if the price is right. Bad news is that you won't be finding any ships making call down at the port. Raiders burnt through that area last year, and what little trade the tribes here were getting done dried up." Pulling forth a flask from his belt, the ghoul drank deep of a whisky so potent it burnt even the Wanderer's nose. "Of course, your little excuse there still don't tell me how you ended up so far from home, does it?"

"That is a very long, very sad story, Captain, and one that I'm not inclined to share. At least not while sober."

The ghoul gave a rasping laugh. "Man after my own heart then," he intoned. "Well, if you two would like to come on upstairs to my humble abode, we can talk business. Hell," he said, holding up the flask for display, "I may even have some of this shit left that's fit for human consumption."

With a rasping rumbling laugh, the ghoul put his drink away and motioned for his guests to follow. "This way, folks. Welcome to Mumbai."

**End Chapter. Please review and what not. Also, please excuse my slightly racist hard drinking zombie. He means well, I promise.**


	12. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Disclaimer: I own nada. ** **And I have a highly irregular writing schedule. So…sorry about that. But I'm back, for now at least, and I have with me a piping hot new update, freshly laced with profanity and just maybe a hint at the villain! Anyways, thanks for the patience, and now back to the good stuff!**

The halls of the consulate were a labyrinth, but the ghoul navigated them with practiced ease, leading his two guests along through its ruined opulence. Artwork hung covered in ash and dust, leaning and crooked from long years gone without cleaning. Offices were empty dark tombs, more than one filled with a skeletal occupant. Here and there the dust-streaked glass had cracked or fallen away, letting in beams of dirty sunlight or an intrepid vine or two.

Their guide called them to a halt before a small and unassuming looking door; the brass plate next to it read _Maintenance_. The Wanderer cocked a brow at Beauregard.

"Looks can be deceiving, my friend," came the ghoul's only answer, before producing a rusty looking key and unlocking the door with a flourish. They stepped inside, and the man had to admit that their newfound companion had been right.

The space may have at one point been a janitor's closet, but no longer. Halfway into the room, the floor gave way to nothingness, as did the ceiling. A makeshift elevator hung in the gap, a rickety looking construct of scrap metal, pulleys, and cable. The Wanderer gave a low whistle as he stepped towards the elevator. The hole extended up through each story of the building, a hastily constructed roof at its top, bits of sunlight peeking through the rivets. Downwards, in extended into blackness.

"How the hell did this happen?"

The ghoul gave rotten-toothed smile. "100 years worth of rot and one epic stroke of bad luck. A satellite destabilized in its obit, eventually fell out of it, and what didn't get burnt up in the atmosphere hit here. Took out the first two floors, and after that it was just like dominoes."

The man could only shake his head. "And I'd thought I'd seen everything. A satellite? No shit?""

"Cross my heart and hope to die," the ghoul cackled, swinging open a gate on the elevator basket and inviting them aboard with a flourish. The Wanderer stepped aboard, Mei clutching to his hand like a lifeline every step of the way. Her eyes had been fixed on the ghoul since they met him.

If Beauregard had noticed, he didn't say anything. Instead, he focused back onto the elevator, securing the gate shut before pressing his thumb to a worn plastic button. With a shudder and a groan, the whole construct lurched and began to ascend. The ghoul turned back to his guests.

"Yep, was at least a couple decades back. Some Mexican comms satellite just dropped outta the sky. Damn near turned me into a zombie pancake." He gave a wheezy laugh at this, removing his finger from the button as they reached their destination; the top floor.

The elevator's stop was just as rocky as its start, and when it finally stopped shaking, the trio exited into what looked to be a makeshift living space. Walls had been knocked down, individual offices joined into a great open common area. Desks had been lines up together into a long table that looked able to seat at least 20, a bank of stoves, ovens, and refrigerators lined up not far from it.

The Wanderer took it all in in a second. "Say, it just you living up here?" he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral, curious.

The ghoul's exuberance at finding another American, infectious since they had met, began to dim a bit. " 'Fraid so," he answered, voice soft. "Was a time that this place was packed with half the ajagars in the city."

He noted the confusion on the Wanderer's face with a twinge of embarrassment. "Oh," he continued," right. Best we could figure, 'ajagar devata' basically came out in Hindi as 'zombie'. The name got shortened, and it stuck."

The man nodded in understanding. "Back home we just call you guys ghouls."

Beauregard took pause, scratching his chin. "Ghouls," he said, slowly, as if tasting the word. "I like it. "

"So what happened to everyone else?"

"Hmm? Oh, right." The ghoul gave a heavy rasping sigh. "It turns out immortality doesn't come without a cost, kid. Give it enough time, and all the radiation and toxins that leave us ghouls as pretty as we are rots your brain. You end up nothing better than an animal. Price of living forever."

Understanding clicked in the Wanderer's head. "Everyone else already went feral," he said, with sympathy.

Beauregard nodded sadly, his eyes downcast. "We had a pact," he said after a moment of contemplative silence. "Once the first few of us turned, and we understood what was going on, we all swore an oath. Swore that once one of us turned, the others would give 'em mercy. That's no way to live, scrounging around like a dog." Another sigh followed. "I buried the last of 'em five years ago."

The ghoul noticed at last Mei's intent stare, peeking out from behind her protector. The old soldier gave the Wanderer a curious glance. "She doesn't seem to much care for me," he commented, only half-jokingly.

The man sighed and gave his young charge a reassuring glance. "My apologies," the Gweilo answered him, offering a smile. "She's just not used to seeing ghouls. Weren't really any around, where she's from."

He decided to leave out the part of the story where the villagers would execute anyone that didn't quite look human. Would probably be for the best.

Beauregard nodded in understanding. "And where exactly would that be? And how'd you end up there?"

The man started to answer, only for the ghoul to cut him off once more. "Hold that thought," he called out, making a beeline for the refrigerator. "I got just what this story time needs! 200 year old whiskey! Stuff just gets better with age. Hell, I might even have a Nuka-Cola or two left for the kid somewhere!"

With a sigh, the Lone Wanderer resigned himself to waiting for their host. Crouching down, he laid a strong but gentle hand upon Mei's shoulder. "Don't worry," he told her, mentally shifting gears back into Chinese. "This guy is a friend, I think. We shouldn't have anything to worry about. "

Two seconds later, a nigh incomprehensible stream of profanity rent the air, capped off with a bellowed "Jesus-mother-fucking-Christ! Why is my booze warm!"

The Wanderer forced a smile. "Well, not too much to worry about."

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"I really ain't in the mood to give you a lesson on your family history, son."

Jonas leveled his sternest glare at the old caravaner, and Mikken relented at last.

"Shit," he sighed, shaking his head. "I'll give you the short version." Popping at least half the joints in his body, Mikken stretched and laid out one of the beds the Brotherhood had provided them with.

"Way back when," he started, idly scratching the scruff at his chin, "your daddy was just a Vaultie like you. 'Cept this was back when your grandpa was running the show, and not your mom. Vault was sealed up tighter than Moriarty's wallet. Then shit hit fan…"

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Jonas sat in stunned silence as he processed what he had just heard; the story of his father. The exploits of the Lone Wanderer, in their purest, unembellished, bloodiest truth. And as much as his mind was reeling, he didn't doubt a word of it. They had been there for nearly and hour, and he had barely said a word, mouth hanging agape for the better part of it.

"Mikken," he started, voice shaking. "First of all, how the hell do you know all this?"

The old caravaner gave a toothy grin. "Well, my boy, me and your daddy crossed paths a few times back in the day," he gave a cheeky smile at the next part, "and alcohol has a habit of turning folks into fast friends. We each did quite a bit of sharing and soul-searching that night. Though I'm afraid a lot of the stories are a bit…fuzzy." The old man gave a sheepish smile. "Though I could say that about a lot of nights back when I was in my prime."

Jonas felt his eye twitch ever so slightly, rage simmering just beneath the surface. "Let me get this straight," he started, between clenched teeth. "You were drinking buddies – drinking buddies! – with my father, knew his whole damn life story, and never bothered to tell me! Why the fuck not!"

He was shouting now; he knew that, but there wasn't a single ounce of him that cared. Not now. Not in the face of this.

Mikken calmly sat up and met the young man's venom filled glare with his own level stare. "Kid, cool your shit. Soon as your mother found out I knew him, she wanted to have me thrown out of the Vault. Believe me, it took every last drop of charm, begging, and bargaining I have to get her to let me stay."

Jonas moved to speak but Mikken shut him down in a heartbeat with a hard glare and a scowl.

"Shut up and listen for a minute, Jonas. You're pissed off. Pissed beyond words. All your life you've been wondering about your dad, wondering what kind of man could leave behind his son. And all the while you'd looked up to the Wanderer, a hero. A hometown hero who'd done so much, for so many. Your hero. And now you find out that those two men, your greatest hero and most hated villain, are one and the same, and you're crushed. How am I doing so far?"

Rage bubbled out from the deepest part of the youth's being. "You have no idea-"

"Oh I know exactly what I'm talking about, kid," Mikken snapped, his weathered eyes boring into his young companion's soul. "You think you're the only one in the world with daddy issues? Families get broken every damn day out here, Jonas. Your pops ain't the one at fault here, though. Your mother never gave him a chance to be a dad. He never even knew you were born."

Mikken's words hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. "My mom…but why?" he whispered, his mouth handing open dumbly.

The old caravaner gave a heavy sigh, and kindness crept back into his voice. "Don't blamer her either, kid. She was young, alone, and scared. Thought she'd have plenty of time to tell your dad. So she stonewalled him until she thought she was ready. Only-"

It was Jonas's turn to cut him off now. "Only he moved on, and then he disappeared," the boy rasped, despondent, collapsing onto his bed as he stared up at the ceiling.

"It's a bitter pill to swallow," Mikken said as he rose to his feet and walked over to his companion's bed. "But can I offer an old man's advice?"

He took Jonas's silence as an affirmative answer.

"Family is what you make it, kid, but shared blood is a damn good point to start with. You just stumbled into a new sister and step-mother. And they just happen to be the most powerful woman in the Capitol Wasteland ad her daughter, respectively. Now if I were you, I'd say they're worth trying to get to know better and get on better terms with. Wouldn't you?"

Jonas was silent for a long time, before finally rising and facing his friend and mentor. He sighed. "Well, when you put it like that, I guess I can give the bitch a second-chance."

The caravaner gave a slight frown. Well, it was a start.

oooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooo

Man and ghoul were both deep into their cups by the time the Wanderer finally began to let slip his tale, as Mei sat silent and sullen in the corner, sipping her Nuka-Cola slowly.

"Well, Captain," the man began, eyes only partially out of focus. "I suppose I still owe you a story or two, eh?"

The ghoul gave a rasping laugh. "Call me Bo, kid. Everyone does. Or did at least. And I am hankering to hear just how you ended up so far from home. Er, where exactly is home?"

With gusto, the Wanderer gulped down the last of his whiskey before pouring himself another, the warm fire of the liquor just starting to tickle his belly and mind.

"Washington D.C, or what's left of it," he answered at last, swirling the ice in his glass. Night had fallen over Mumbai, the screeches of the urban jungle's denizens lilting in through the windows.

Bo nodded in understanding. "I'm an Atlanta boy myself," he countered, pausing only to take a hearty swig from his own tumbler of whiskey. "Been up to the capital a few times though. Always liked it."

The Wanderer nodded, before giving a harsh and hollow laugh. "We were really starting to make something of it there. Clean water, no more mutant attacks. Trade was up. All for nothing."

"What happened?"

The man from the Vault was silent as the grave, his eyes roiling pits of fury until at long last he spat a single word from his lips.

"Zimmer."

**End Chapter. Thanks for your patience everybody. Hope you enjoyed it. More of the Wanderer's lost years will be revealed in the coming chapters. Let me know what you think.**


	13. A Wanderer's Tale, Part 1

**Disclaimer: Don't own a damn thing. But really, by this point you guys should all know this. Come on, people.**

**Wow. Time can really get away from a guy. Long story short, a bad combination of writer's block, pneumonia, school, and a host of other factors sort of forced this little tale to the back burner. No longer! Legacy is back my friends, and I hope you like it.**

"Zimmer."

The word hung in the air as the Wanderer stared into his glass, hands gripping the table with white knuckles. Bo reached to scratch an itch on his rotting face before pouring refilling his drinking companion's glass.

"That sounds like a story that needs a little more whiskey, friend," the ghoul said softly, watching in silence as the Wanderer downed the potent drink in one fluid motion.

"You don't know the half of it," the man answered.

ooooooooo ooooooooooo ooooooooo oooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooooo

16 Years Earlier

The young man awoke with the rising sun as its rays snuck in through the dirtied glass of the Citadel. For a minute that stretched on into forever, he simply laid there, arms wrapped around the woman he loved, feeling her warmth and her every breath until at last, she too rose from her slumber.

"Hey there," Sarah Lyons whispered, her voice still groggy from sleep as she turned to face the man the Wastes knew as the Wanderer. Her blond hair fell down like a veil across her face, and with a smile the young man brushed it away before drawing her into a kiss. "Hey there yourself."

One very long shower later, the two emerged from the bathroom adjoining their quarters to prepare for the day.

"I'm going to go investigate that strange radio signal the PipBoy's been picking up," the Wanderer said as he slipped into a pair of pants and buckled a plasma pistol to his belt. The quartermaster kept all the heavy armor and weapons, and kept them in top shape, but he always liked to be prepared.

"That's what we have scouts for," Sarah countered him, dropping her towel and sauntering over to the dresser. The young man couldn't help but smile; such a tease.

"Ah, but you know what they say. If you want something done right, best do it yourself. Besides, there's no sense in losing a recruit to a deathclaw or some Enclave stragglers when I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself."

His beloved attempted a pout, but quickly relented with a sigh. "I can't argue with that," she said. "Just come home in one piece, okay? I'll have a surprise waiting when you do."

"For you, my dear, anything," he shot back in mock seriousness before finishing dressing and slipping out the door. He never saw the box of pre-war pregnancy tests peeking out from under the bed.

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The dusty winds of the Capital Wasteland whistled through the plates of the Lone Wanderer's power armor as he walked over the desolate hills of his domain, bearing north towards the mysterious signal. His plasma rifle crackled in his hands; still warm from the barrage he'd let loose that had atomized an unlucky radscorpion. At last, the object of his search appeared before him, rising up over the horizon. The centuries old radio tower stood alone and forlorn on the hilltop, a bent and crooked iron skeleton, teetering in the wind. Its station office wasn't in much better shape.

With the caution born of experience, the Wanderer approached the door slowly, eyes flitting from one shadow to the next, always at the ready for an attack. No enemies materialized, no dangers lurked. It looked for all the world abandoned. Satisfied, the man stepped inside.

A thick layer of dust coated the floors and equipment, and fresh boot prints were visible in it. The main console across the room showed signs of recent use as well. Curiosity piqued, the man followed the footsteps over to the towers controls. Its switches and dials were clean of the grime the decorated the rest of the building, streaks still visible from where the last user had hastily wiped it away. A memory drive had been wired into the signal input port, the source of the mystery broadcast. With a steady hand, the Wanderer reached to pluck it from its resting place.

The second his hand made contact with the drive, electricity coursed from the machine into his body, a searing agony that raced through his flesh. With a cry, he fell back, armor locking up as its servos and circuitry fried. His armor a prison, he could only watch as shadows fell across his body, and footsteps echoed ever closer. Unseen hands pulled off his helmet, even as he thrashed and cursed at them, his arms and legs pinned by the iron maiden his suit had become. A foul smelling rag was pressed against his nose and mouth, and then there was nothing but oblivion.

oooooooooooo ooooooooooo oooooooooooo ooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooo

With a groan, the Lone Wanderer returned to the land of waking, and the world spun as it settled back into focus. Chains bound his wrists, and a strange pressure was settled upon his brow. His armor was gone, and so were his guns. The drone of propellers reached his ears, a familiar vibration shaking his body; he was in a Vertibird, he was certain of that. But whose? And why?

"Ah, you're awake. Good."

The world snapped back into focus as the Wanderer laid eyes on a familiar, craggy, smirking face; Dr. Zimmer. The bespectacled doctor wore a cat-like smile, his hands folded across his lap. His bodyguard, Armitage , sat next to him, dour faced as always. The Wanderer's mind began to crunch the possibilities of escape. Zimmer was an old man, and a feeble one at that. He appeared unarmed as well, which was all the better. Armitage wore only a sidearm, but the newly made prisoner knew that beneath the veneer of a flesh, Armitage was cold steel and wires, an android, just like the one Zimmer had come to Rivet City looking for. Bashing in a robot's head with nothing but bare hands was no easy feat, but it was doable. In a split second, he had made his decision. The Wanderer lunged forward, hands upraised to bring down onto the androids head, a snarl on his lips, when his cry of defiance quickly turned to a howl of pain. Agony coursed through his body, crippling him as he fell to the floor of the Vertibird cabin. Rough hands, robot's hands, unceremoniously dumped him back into his seat. When at last he stopped shaking, the Wanderer looked towards the doctor, who sat smiling, a small remote control in his hands.

"Perhaps I should've mentioned to the EOS first." Straightening his glasses, the doctor spoke like a teacher to his students. "The Enhanced Obedience System, marvelous little piece of technology. The government always did lie keeping the best toys for itself. The lovely headband you currently find yourself wearing is equipped with advanced brainwave sensors, and it has sunk a number of diodes into your skull. I get the analysis of your patterns on this handset," he continued, waving the remote. "Excessive brain activity in certain regions means a higher probability of aggressive action, and should that prove true, well, you saw what happens."

"Why are you doing this?" the Wanderer spat, still breathing heavily as spasms of pain still asserted themselves.

"Simply put, you, your Brotherhood of Steel," Zimmer spat the name in disgust, "have certain items that my organization desires. Items you won't part with peacefully. The Pentagon, Liberty Prime, even when its in pieces. The Capital Wasteland is a treasure trove of technology, a resource my superiors can't afford to pass up."

"So where does kidnapping me come into play?" the Wanderer asked coldly.

"Simple. We need an inside man."

Rage boiled over inside of the Wanderer.

"You think a little pain's going to turn me traitor?" he spat, before laughing harsh as a crow. "That's your master plan?"

Zimmer frowned at this outburst, his fingers twitching towards the remote, but he stopped himself at the last minute. "The EOS may not insure your long-term cooperation, but a microchip in your brain will." Holding his finger to an earpiece, Zimmer smiled as he spoke to the unseen pilot. "What's our estimated time to the field laboratory? Excellent."

Smiling smugly, Zimmer faced his prisoner. "Enjoy your last few hours of free thought. From here on out, you belong to the Institute." Almost casually, he flipped the switch on the remote control. The champion of the wastes screamed.

"I think I'm going to enjoy this trip after all," the doctor whispered under his breath.

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Time had slowed to a crawl, punctuated by fits of agony as the good doctor got bored and decided to play with his new toy. At last though, it seemed they were nearing their destination, the Vertibird beginning to descend.

The closest expression to concern he was capable of giving plastered Armitage's face as he turned to face Zimmer.

"Sir, the field lab isn't responding to radio hails. Should we continue?"

The doctor brushed away concern with a wave of his hand. "I instructed them to maintain radio silence. Can't have any savages stumbling onto them, now can we?"

He delivered this comment with a nasty glare towards his prisoner, and then, almost casually, flipped the switch on the remote.

"Oops," he murmured with a smile, as the Wanderer screamed.

At last, the Vertibird began to land, setting down in the middle of a ring of ruined office buildings, their crumbling facades hiding it from the world. The aircraft set down with a bump, and as the propellers slowly died down, the passengers began to exit. Holding the remote aloft like a warning, the doctor gestured towards his unwilling guest.

"After you."

The Wanderer grudgingly obeyed, slipping out the cabin door after Armitage opened it. The android followed soon after, his gun at the ready, and Zimmer closed the door behind him as he exited. The pilot joined them soon after, a young man in his mid twenties, it seemed, though whether he was man or machine, the Wanderer couldn't say.

"Odd," the doctor murmured, as the darkness of the night and the shadows of the ruins enveloped them. "The maintenance crew should be here."

As if on cue, a trio of spotlights roared to life, revealing the dozen or so armed men and women surrounding them. The manic eyes, the ragtag armor, the rusting weapons, all of it pointed to one conclusion. Raiders.

"Hate to disappoint you folks, but your welcoming party won't be coming. You'll have to make do with us instead."

A towering man in patchwork metal armor strode forward, combat shotgun casually cradled in his hands. He wore his hair wild, his beard even wilder, but they could do little to hide the mess of scars running across his face.

"The name's Rourke, boys, and for he foreseeable future, y'all belong to me. Welcome to Baltimore"

**End Chapter. Wee bit short, I know, but hey, sue me. More is on the way though, so fear not. Hope everyone enjoyed the beginning of the Wanderer's tale as much as I enjoyed dreaming it up. Til next time folks**


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